THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 


THE 

LITTLE  ANGEL 

AND     OTHER     STORIES 


TRANSLATED      FROM 
THE     RUSSIAN     OF 

L.  N.  ANDREYEV 

BY 

W.  H.  LOWE 


ALFRED    A.    KNOPF 
NEW  YORK   MCMXVI 


College 
Library 


PREFACE 

LEONID  NIKOLAIVICH  ANDREYEV  was  born 
in  Orel  in  1871.  After  his  father's  death  he 
was  thrown  upon  his  own  resources,  but 
managed  to  study  at  both  Petrograd  and 
Moscow  Universities,  graduating  in  Law  in 
1897.  During  this  period  he  endured  great 
hardship — often  even  actual  hunger — and  was 
the  victim  of  deep  melancholia.  His  first 
writings  were  unsuccessful ;  and,  for  a  time, 
he  devoted  himself  to  painting.  Later  he 
came  into  touch  with  the  Russian  press  as 
police-court  reporter  for  a  leading  newspaper. 
Then  Silence  was  published,  and  brought 
him  immediate  recognition.  This  terrible 
story  may  serve  as  an  example  of  his  method. 
The  silence  of  the  frightened  girl,  dying  with 
her  secret,  and  of  her  mother,  stricken,  through 
shock,  with  paralysis,  crushes  the  pride  of 


1158667 


6  PREFACE 

the  priest  whose  training  has  so  stiffened  his 
nature  that  he  cannot  express  or  welcome 
affection.  He  cries  for  help ;  he  entreats 
them  to  show  him  pity.  His  daughter  lies 
dead  ;  his  wife  motionless.  An  abstract  idea 
is  the  germ  of  each  tale  ;  around  it  are  woven 
both  characters  and  incident — a  process  which 
is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  work  of  his  con- 
temporary Maxim  Gorky  whose  people  with 
their  actions  come  directly  from  life — mostly, 
indeed,  from  his  own  personal  experiences. 
Sometimes  the  double  note  is  tragic  ;  oftener, 
the  abstract  idea  redeems  the  gloom  or  hor- 
ror of  the  actual  tale,  as  in  The  Little  Angel 
and  In  the  Basement,  for,  while  the  stories 
of  Andreyev  are  tinged  with  more  than  even 
the  ordinary  tone  of  sadness  of  the  Russian 
writer,  there  seems  to  be  in  his  mind  a  bal- 
ancing, a  search  for  some  kind  of  compensa- 
tion, as  though  he  would  say,  '  No  man  is 
wholly  good  or  wholly  bad.'  Perhaps  it  is 
the  weakness  of  a  method  by  which  his  char- 
acters become  the  puppets — however  real — 
illustrating  an  idea  ;  perhaps  it  is  the  strength 


PREFACE  7 

of  the  author's  vision,  that  makes  his  people 
sometimes  morbid  and  unhealthy.  They  are 
driven  by  a  relentless  creator,  as  hi  Mase- 
field's  Nan,  to  their  destiny.  Nevertheless, 
the  beauty  of  his  style,  the  clear  imagination, 
and  the  perfect  form  of  his  stories  come  not 
only  from  an  artist  but  from  a  philosopher 
and  poet.  His  work  is  not  for  babes.  Deep 
truths  are  presented  not  more  realistically  in 
the  anomalies  and  terrors  of  life  than  in  the 
symbolism  of  his  short  stories  and,  in  its 
more  elaborate  form,  of  his  plays.  Touches 
of  tenderness,  beauty,  and  sympathetic  in- 
sight are  found  on  every  page  side  by  side 
with  brutality  and  coarseness,  for  Andreyev 
draws  Life  without  hiding,  without  shirking. 
But,  beyond  and  behind,  his  mind  is  working 
ceaselessly,  struggling  to  co-ordinate  the 
whole. 

His  works  comprise  a  large  number  of 
stories,  including  beside  the  present  collection 
Judas  Iscariot,  The  Red  Laugh,  The  Seven 
Who  were  Hanged,  and  some  powerful  studies 
in  madness ;  and  of  plays  most  of  which 


8  PREFACE 

are  performed  uppn  the  Russian,  though,  not 
yet  upon  the  English,  stage.  Among  the 
latter  are  The  Life  of  Man,  Anathema,  The 
Black  Maskers,  The  Sabine  Women,  and  The 
Tragedy  of,  Belgium. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE  . 5 

V 

THE  LITTLE  ANGEL n 

AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION       ....  39 

SNAPPER 49 

THE  LIE 65 

AN  ORIGINAL 83 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW        .        .        .        .     101 

9 


io  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SILENCE  ....  I2i 


LAUGHTER 


149 


THE  FRIEND 161 

IN  THE  BASEMENT 

THE  CITY 

THE  MARSEILLAISE 211 

THE  TOCSIN 217 

BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA          ....  231 

STEPPING-STONES 249 


THE     LITTLE     ANGEL 


Ax  times  Sashka  wished  to  give  up  what  is 
called  living  :  to  cease  to  wash  every  morning 
in  cold  water,  on  which  thin  sheets  of  ice 
floated  about ;  to  go  no  more  to  the  grammar 
school,  and  there  to  have  to  listen  to  every 
one  scolding  him  ;  no  more  to  experience 
the  pain  in  the  small  of  his  back  and  indeed 
over  his  whole  body  when  his  mother  made 
him  kneel  in  the  corner  all  the  evening.  But, 
since  he  was  only  thirteen  years  of  age,  and 
did  not  know  all  the  means  by  which  people 
abandon  life  at  will,  he  continued  to  go  to 
the  grammar  school  and  to  kneel  in  the  corner, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  life  would  never 
end.  A  year  would  go  by,  and  another,  and 
yet  another,  and  still  he  would  be  going  to 
school,  and  be  made  to  kneel  in  the  corner. 
And  since  Sashka  possessed  an  indomitable 
and  bold  spirit,  he  could  not  supinely  tolerate 
evil,  and  so  found  means  to  avenge  himself 
on  life.  With  this  object  in  view  he  would 

11 


12  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

thrash  his  companions,  be  rude  to  the  Head, 
impertinent  to  the  masters,  and  tell  lies  all 
day  long  to  his  teachers  and  to  his  mother — 
but  to  his  father  only  he  never  lied.  If  in  a 
fight  he  got  his  nose  broken,  he  would  pur- 
posely make  the  damage  worse,  and  howl, 
without  shedding  a  single  tear,  but  so  loudly 
that  all  who  heard  him  were  fain  to  stop  their 
ears  to  keep  out  the  disagreeable  sound. 
When  he  had  howled  as  long  as  he  thought 
advisable,  he  would  suddenly  cease,  and, 
putting  out  his  tongue,  draw  in  his  copy-book 
a  caricature  of  himself  howling  at  an  usher 
who  pressed  his  fingers  to  his  ears,  while  the 
victor  stood  trembling  with  fear.  The  whole 
copy-book  was  filled  with  caricatures,  the  one 
which  most  frequently  occurred  being  that 
of  a  short  stout  woman  beating  a  boy  as  thin 
as  a  lucifer-match  with  a  rolling  pin.  Below 
in  a  large  scrawling  hand  would  be  written 
the  legend  :  '  Beg  my  pardon,  puppy  ! '  and 
the  reply,  '  Won't !  blow'd  if  I  do  ! ' 

Before  Christmas  Sashka  was  expelled  from 
school,  and  when  his  mother  attempted  to 
thrash  him,  he  bit  her  finger.  This  action 
gave  him  his  liberty.  He  left  off  washing  in 
the  morning,  ran  about  all  day  bullying  the 
other  boys,  and  had  but  one  fear,  and  that 
was  hunger,  for  his  mother  entirely  left  off 
providing  for  him,  so  that  he  came  to  depend 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  13 

upon  the  pieces  of  bread  and  potatoes  which 
his  father  secreted  for  him.  On  these  con- 
ditions Sashka  found  existence  tolerable. 

One  Friday  (it  was  Christmas  Eve)  he  had 
been  playing  with  the  other  boys,  until  they 
had  dispersed  to  their  homes,  followed  by 
the  squeak  of  the  rusty  frozen  wicket  gate  as 
it  closed  behind  the  last  of  them.  It  was 
already  growing  dark,  and  a  grey  snowy  mist 
was  travelling  up  from  the  country,  along  a 
dark  alley  ;  in  a  low  black  building,  which 
stood  fronting  the  end  of  the  alley,  a  lamp 
was  burning  with  a  reddish,  unblinking  light. 
The  frost  had  become  more  intense,  and  when 
Sashka  reached  the  circle  of  light  cast  by  the 
lamp,  he  saw  that  fine  dry  flakes  of  snow 
were  floating  slowly  on  the  air.  It  was  high 
time  to  be  getting  home. 

'Where  have  you  been  knocking  about  all 
night,  puppy  ?  '  exclaimed  his  mother,  doub- 
ling her  fist,  without,  however,  striking.  Her 
sleeves  were  turned  up,  exposing  her  fat 
white  arms,  and  on  her  forehead,  almost 
devoid  of  eyebrows,  stood  beads  of  perspira- 
tion. As  Sashka  passed  by  her  he  recognized 
the  familiar  smell  of  vodka.  His  mother 
scratched  her  head  with  the  short  dirty  nail 
of  her  thick  fore-finger,  and  since  it  was  no 
good  scolding,  she  merely  spat,  and  cried  : 
'  Statisticians  !  that's  what  they  are  !  ' 


14  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

Sashka  shuffled  contemptuously,  and  went 
behind  the  partition,  from  whence  might  be 
heard  the  heavy  breathing  of  his  father,  Ivan 
Sawich,  who  was  in  a  chronic  state  of  shiver- 
ing, and  was  now  trying  to  warm  himself 
by  sitting  on  the  heated  bench  of  the  stove 
with  his  hands  under  him,  palms  downwards. 

'  Sashka !  the  Svetchnikovs  have  invited 
you  to  the  Christmas  tree.  The  housemaid 
came/  he  whispered. 

'  Get  along  with  you ! '  said  Sashka  with 
incredulity. 

'  Fact !  The  old  woman  there  has  pur- 
posely not  told  you,  but  she  has  mended  your 
jacket  all  the  same.' 

'  Non — sense/  Sashka  replied,  still  more  sur- 
prised. 

The  Svetchnikovs  were  rich  people,  who 
had  put  him  to  the  grammar  school,  and  after 
his  expulsion  had  forbidden  him  their  house. 

His  father  once  more  took  his  oath  to  the 
truth  of  his  statement,  and  Sashka  became 
meditative. 

'  Well  then,  move,  shift  a  bit/  he  said  to 
his  father,  as  he  leapt  upon  the  short  bench, 
adding : 

'  I  won't  go  to  those  devils.  I  should  prove 
jolly  well  too  much  for  them,  if  I  were  to 
turn  up.  Depraved  boy,'  drawled  Sashka  in 
imitation  of  his  patrons.  '  They  are  none 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  15 

too  good  themselves,  the  smug-faced  prigs ! ' 

'  Oh !  Sashka,  Sashka,'  his  father  com- 
plained, sitting  hunched  up  with  cold,  '  you'll 
come  to  a  bad  end/ 

'  What  about  yourself,  then  ?  '  was  Sashka's 
rude  rejoinder.  '  Better  shut  up.  Afraid 
of  the  old  woman.  Ba  !  old  muff !  ' 

His  father  sat  on  in  silence  and  shivered. 
A  faint  light  found  its  way  through  a  broad 
clink  at  the  top,  where  the  partition  failed 
to  meet  the  ceiling  by  a  quarter  of  an  inch, 
and  lay  in  bright  patches  upon  his  high  fore- 
head, beneath  which  the  deep  cavities  of  his 
eyes  showed  black. 

In  times  gone  by  Ivan  Sawich  had  been 
used  to  drink  heavily,  and  then  his  wife  had 
feared  and  hated  him.  But  when  he  had 
begun  to  develop  unmistakable  signs  of  con- 
sumption, and  could  drink  no  longer,  she 
took  to  drink  in  her  turn,  and  gradually  accus- 
tomed herself  to  vodka.  Then  she  avenged 
herself  for  all  she  had  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  that  tall  narrow-chested  man,  who  used 
incomprehensible  words,  had  lost  his  place 
through  disobedience  and  drunkenness,  and 
who  brought  home  with  him  just  such  long- 
haired, debauched  and  conceited  fellows  as 
himself. 

In  contradistinction  to  her  husband,  the 
more  Feoktista  Petrovna  drank  the  healthier 


16  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

she  became,  and  the  heavier  became  her  fists. 
Now  she  said  what  she  pleased,  brought  men 
and  women  to  the  house  just  as  she  chose, 
and  sang  with  them  noisy  songs,  while  he  lay 
silent  behind  the  partition  huddled  together 
with  perpetual  cold,  and  meditating  on  the 
injustice  and  sorrow  of  human  life.  To 
every  one,  with  whom  she  talked,  she  com- 
plained that  she  had  no  such  enemies  in  the 
world  as  her  husband  and  son,  they  were 
stuck-up  statisticians  ! 

For  the  space  of  an  hour  his  mother  kept 
drumming  into  Sashka's  ears : 

'  But  I  say  you  shall  go/  punctuating  each 
word  with  a  heavy  blow  on  the  table,  which 
made  the  tumblers,  placed  on  it  after  washing, 
jump  and  rattle  again. 

'  But  I  say  I  won't !  '  Sashka  coolly  replied, 
dragging  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  with 
the  will  to  show  his  teeth — a  habit  which 
had  earned  for  him  at  school  the  nickname 
of  Wolfkin. 

'  I'll  thrash  you,  won't  I  just ! '  cried  his 
mother. 

'  All  right !  thrash  away  ! ' 

But  Feoktista  Petrovna  knew  that  she 
could  no  longer  strike  her  son  now  that  he 
had  begun  to  retaliate  by  biting,  and  that  if 
she  drove  him  into  the  street  he  would  go 
off  larking,  and  sooner  get  frost-bitten  than 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  17 

go  to  the  Svetchnikovs,  therefore  she  appealed 
to  her  husband's  authority. 

'  Calls  himself  a  father,  and  can't  protect 
the  mother  from  insult !  ' 

'  Really,  Sashka,  go.  Why  are  you  so 
obstinate  ?  '  he  jerked  out  from  the  bench. 
'  They  will  perhaps  take  you  up  again.  They 
are  kind  people.'  Sashka  only  laughed  in 
an  insulting  manner. 

His  father,  long  ago,  before  Sashka  was 
born,  had  been  tutor  at  the  Svetchnikovs', 
and  had  ever  since  looked  on  them  as  the  best 
people  in  the  world.  At  that  time  he  had 
held  also  an  appointment  in  the  statistical 
office  of  the  Zemstvo,  and  had  not  yet  taken 
to  drink.  Eventually  he  was  compelled 
through  his  own  fault  to  marry  his  landlady's 
daughter.  From  that  time  he  severed  his 
connection  with  the  Svetchnikovs,  and  took 
to  drink.  Indeed,  he  let  himself  go  to  such 
an  extent,  that  he  was  several  times  picked 
up  drunk  in  the  streets  and  taken  to  the 
police  station.  But  the  Svetchnikovs  did  not 
cease  to  assist  him  with  money,  and  Feoktista 
Petrovna,  although  she  hated  them,  together 
with  books  and  everything  connected  with 
her  husband's  past,  still  valued  their  ac- 
quaintance, and  was  in  the  habit  of  boasting 
of  it. 

'  Perhaps  you  might  bring  something  for 


18  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

me  too  from  the  Christmas  tree,'  continued 
his  father.  He  was  using  craft  to  induce  his 
son  to  go,  and  Sashka  knew  it,  and  despised 
his  father  for  his  weakness  and  want  of 
straightforwardness ;  though  he  really  did 
wish  to  bring  back  something  for  the  poor 
sickly  old  man,  who  had  for  a  long  time  been 
without  even  good  tobacco. 

'  All  right ! '  he  blurted  out ;  '  give  me  my 
jacket.  Have  you  put  the  buttons  on  ?  No 
fear  !  I  know  you  too  well ! ' 


II 

THE  children  had  not  yet  been  admitted  to 
the  drawing-room,  where  the  Christmas  tree 
stood,  but  remained  chattering  in  the  nur- 
sery. Sashka,  with  lofty  superciliousness, 
stood  listening  to  their  naive  talk,  and  finger- 
ing in  his  breeches  pocket  the  broken  cigar- 
ettes which  he  had  managed  to  abstract  from 
his  host's  study.  At  this  moment  there 
came  up  to  him  the  youngest  of  the  Svetchni- 
kovs,  Kolya,  and  stood  motionless  before  him, 
a  look  of  surprise  on  his  face,  his  toes  turned 
in,  and  a  finger  stuck  in  the  corner  of  his 
pouting  mouth.  Six  months  ago,  at  the  in- 
stance of  his  relatives,  he  had  given  up  this 
bad  habit  of  putting  his  finger  in  his  mouth, 
but  he  could  not  quite  break  himself  of  it. 
He  had  blonde  locks  cut  in  a  fringe  on  his  f ore- 
head'and  falling  in  ringlets  on  his  shoulders, 
and  blue,  wondering  eyes;  in  fact,  he  was 
just  such  a  boy  in  appearance  as  Sashka 
particularly  loved  to  bully. 

'  Are  'oo  weally  a  naughty  boy  ?  '  he  in- 

19 


20  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

quired  of  Sashka.     '  Miss  said  'oo  was.     I'm 
a  dood  boy/ 

'  That  you  are  ! '  replied  Sashka,  consider- 
ing the  other's  short  velvet  trousers  and 
great  turndown  collars. 

'  Would  'oo  like  to  have  a  dun  ?  There  ! ' 
and  he  pointed  at  him  a  little  pop-gun  with 
a  cork  tied  to  it.  The  Wolf  kin  took  the  gun, 
pressed  down  the  spring,  and,  aiming  at  the 
nose  of  the  unsuspecting  Kolya,  pulled  the 
trigger.  The  cork  struck  his  nose,  and  re- 
bounding, hung  by  the  string.  Kolya's  blue 
eyes  opened  wider  than  ever,  and  filled  with 
tears.  Transferring  his  finger  from  his  mouth 
to  his  reddening  nose  he  blinked  his  long 
eyelashes  and  whispered : 

<  Bad— bad  boy  ! ' 

A  young  lady  of  striking  appearance,  with 
her  hair  dressed  in  the  simplest  and  the  most 
becoming  fashion,  now  entered  the  nursery. 
She  was  sister  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  the 
very  one  indeed  to  whom  Sashka's  father  had 
formerly  given  lessons. 

'  Here's  the  boy,'  said  she,  pointing  out 
Sashka  to  the  bald-headed  man  who  accom- 
panied her.  '  Bow,  Sashka,  you  should  not 
be  so  rude  ! ' 

But  Sashka  would  bow  neither  to  her,  nor 
to  her  companion  of  the  bald  head.  She 
little  suspected  how  much  he  knew.  But, 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  21 

as  a  fact,  Sashka  did  know  that  his  miserable 
father  had  loved  her,  and  that  she  had  mar- 
ried another ;  and,  though  this  had  taken 
place  subsequent  to  his  father's  marriage, 
Sashka  could  not  bring  himself  to  forgive 
what  seemed  to  him  like  treachery. 

'  Takes  after  his  father ! '  sighed  Sofia 
Dmitrievna.  '  Could  not  you,  Plutov  Mich- 
ailovich,  do  something  for  him  ?  My  husband 
says  that  a  commercial  school  would  suit 
him  better  than  the  grammar  school.  Sashka, 
would  you  like  to  go  to  a  technical  school  ? ' 

'  No ! '  curtly  replied  Sashka,  who  had 
caught  the  offensive  word  '  husband.' 

'  Do  you  want  to  be  a  shepherd,  then  ? ' 
asked  the  gentleman. 

'  Not  likely !'  said  Sashka,  in  an  offended  tone. 

'  What  then  ?  ' 

Now  Sashka  did  not  know  what  he  would 
like  to  be,  but  upon  reflection  replied  :  '  Well, 
it's  all  the  same  to  me,  even  a  shepherd,  if 
you  like.' 

The  bald-headed  gentleman  regarded  the 
strange  boy  with  a  look  of  perplexity.  When 
his  eyes  had  travelled  up  from  his  patched 
boots  to  his  face,  Sashka  put  out  his  tongue 
and  quickly  drew  it  back  again,  so  that  Sofia 
Dmitrievna  did  not  notice  anything,  but  the 
old  gentleman  showed  an  amount  of  irasci- 
bility that  she  could  not  understand. 


22  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

1 1  should  not  mind  going  to  a  commercial 
school/  bashfully  suggested  Sashka. 

The  lady  was  overjoyed  at  Sashka' s  de- 
cision, and  meditated  with  a  sigh  on  the 
beneficial  influence  exercised  by  an  old  love. 

'  I  don't  know  whether  there  will  be  a 
vacancy/  dryly  remarked  the  old  man  avoid- 
ing looking  at  Sashka,  and  smoothing  down 
the  ridge  of  hair  which  stuck  up  on  the  back 
of  his  head.  '  However,  we  shall  see/ 

Meanwhile  the  children  were  becoming 
noisy,  and  in  a  great  state  of  excitement  were 
waiting  impatiently  for  the  Christmas  tree. 

The  excellent  practice  with  the  pop-gun 
made  in  the  hands  of  a  boy,  who  commanded 
respect  both  for  his  stature  and  for  his  repu- 
tation for  naughtiness,  found  imitators,  and 
many  a  little  button  of  a  nose  was  made  red. 
The  tiny  maids,  holding  their  sides,  bent 
almost  double  with  laughter,  as  their  little 
cavaliers  with  manly  contempt  of  fear  and 
pain,  but  all  the  same  wrinkling  up  their 
faces  in  suspense,  received  the  impact  of  the 
cork. 

At  length  the  doors  were  opened,  and  a 
voice  said  :  '  Come  in,  children ;  gently, 
not  so  fast !  '  Opening  their  little  eyes  wide, 
and  holding  their  breath  in  anticipation,  the 
children  filed  into  the  brightly  illumined 
drawing-room  in  orderly  pairs,  and  quietly 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  23 

walked  round  the  glittering  tree.  It  cast  a 
strong,  shadowless  light  on  their  eager  faces, 
with  rounded  eyes  and  mouths.  For  a 
minute  there  reigned  the  silence  of  profound 
enchantment,  which  all  at  once  broke  out 
into  a  chorus  of  delighted  exclamation.  One 
of  the  little  girls,  unable  to  restrain  her  de- 
light, kept  dancing  up  and  down  in  the  same 
place,  her  little  tress  braided  with  blue  ribbon 
beating  meanwhile  rhythmically  against  her 
shoulders.  Sashka  remained  morose  and 
gloomy — something  evil  was  working  in  his 
little  wounded  breast.  The  tree  blinded  him 
with  its  red,  shriekingly  insolent  glitter  of 
countless  candles.  It  was  foreign,  hostile  to 
him,  even  as  the  crowd  of  smart,  pretty  chil- 
dren which  surrounded  it.  He  would  have 
liked  to  give  it  a  shove,  and  topple  it  over 
on  their  shining  heads.  It  seemed  as  though 
some  iron  hand  were  gripping  his  heart,  and 
wringing  out  of  it  every  drop  of  blood.  He 
crept  behind  the  piano,  and  sat  down  there 
in  a  corner  unconsciously  crumpling  to  pieces 
in  his  pocket  the  last  of  the  cigarettes,  and 
thinking  that  though  he  had  a  father  and 
mother  and  a  home,  it  came  to  the  same  thing 
as  if  he  had  none,  and  nowhere  to  go  to.  He 
tried  to  recall  to  his  imagination  his  little 
penknife,  which  he  had  acquired  by  a  swap 
not  long  ago,  and  was  very  fond  of ;  but  his 


24  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

knife  all  at  once  seemed  to  him  a  very  poor 
affair  with  its  ground-down  blade  and  only 
half  of  a  yellow  haft.  To-morrow  he  would 
smash  it  up,  and  then  he  would  have  nothing 
left  at  all ! 

But  suddenly  Sashka's  narrow  eyes  gleamed 
with  astonishment,  and  his  face  in  a  moment 
resumed  its  ordinary  expression  of  audacity 
and  self-confidence.  On  the  side  of  the  tree 
turned  towards  him — which  was  the  back  of 
it,  and  less  brightly  illumined  than  the  other 
side — he  discovered  something  such  as  had 
never  come  within  the  circle  of  his  existence, 
and  without  which  all  his  surroundings  ap- 
peared as  empty  as  though  peopled  by  per- 
sons without  life.  It  was  a  little  angel  in 
wax  carelessly  hung  in  the  thickest  of  the 
dark  boughs,  and  looking  as  if  it  were  floating 
in  the  air.  His  transparent  dragon-fly  wings 
trembled  in  the  light,  and  he  seemed  alto- 
gether alive  and  ready  to  fly  away.  The 
rosy  fingers  of  his  exquisitely  formed  hands 
were  stretched  upwards,  and  from  his  head 
there  floated  just  such  locks  as  Kolya's. 
But  there  was  something  here  that  was  want- 
ing in  Kolya's  face,  and  in  all  other  faces 
and  things.  The  face  of  the  little  angel  did 
not  shine  with  joy,  nor  was  it  clouded  by 
grief ;  but  there  lay  on  it  the  impress  of 
another  feeling,  not  to  be  explained  in  words, 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  25 

nor  defined  by  thought,  but  to  be  attained 
only  by  the  sympathy  of  a  kindred  feeling. 
Sashka  was  not  conscious  of  the  force  of  the 
mysterious  influence  which  attracted  him 
towards  the  little  angel,  but  he  felt  that  he 
had  known  him  all  his  life,  and  had  always 
loved  him,  loved  him  more  than  his  penknife, 
more  than  his  father,  more  than  anything 
else.  Filled  with  doubt,  alarm,  and  a  delight 
which  he  could  not  comprehend,  Sashka 
clasped  his  hands  to  his  bosom  and  whispered  : 

'  Dear — dear  little  angel !  ' 

The  more  intently  he  looked  the  more 
fraught  with  significance  the  expression  of 
the  little  angel's  face  became.  He  was  so 
infinitely  far  off,  so  unlike  everything  which 
surrounded  him  there.  The  other  toys 
seemed  to  take  a  pride  in  hanging  there 
pretty,  and  decked  out,  upon  the  glittering 
tree,  but  he  was  pensive,  and  fearing  the 
intrusive  light  purposely  hid  himself  in  the 
dark  greenery,  so  that  none  might  see  him. 
It  would  be  a  mad  cruelty  to  touch  his  dainty 
little  wings. 

'  Dear — dear  !  '  whispered  Sashka. 

His  head  became  feverish.  He  clasped  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  and  in  full  readiness 
to  fight  to  the  death  to  win  the  little  angel, 
he  walked  to  and  fro  with  cautious,  stealthy 
steps.  He  avoided  looking  at  the  little 


26  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

angel,  lest  he  should  direct  the  attention  of 
others  towards  him,  but  he  felt  that  he  was 
still  there,  and  had  not  flown  away. 

Now  the  hostess  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
a  tall,  stately  lady  with  a  bright  aureole  of 
grey  hair  dressed  high  upon  her  head.  The 
children  trooped  round  her  with  expressions 
of  delight,  and  the  little  girl — the  same  that 
had  danced  about  in  her  place — hung  wearily 
on  her  hand,  blinking  heavily  with  sleepy 
eyes. 

As  Sashka  approached  her  he  seemed 
almost  choking  with  emotion. 

'  Auntie — auntie  ! '  x  said  he,  trying  to 
speak  caressingly,  but  his  voice  sounded 
harsher  than  ever.  '  Auntie,  dear  ! ' 

She  did  not  hear  him,  so  he  tugged  im- 
patiently at  her  dress. 

'  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  Why  are 
you  pulling  my  dress  ? '  said  the  grey-haired 
lady  in  surprise.  '  It's  rude.' 

'  Auntie — auntie,  do  give  me  one  thing 
from  the  tree ;  give  me  the  little  angel.' 

'  Impossible,'  replied  the  lady  in  a  tone  of 
indifference.  '  We  are  going  to  keep  the  tree 
decorated  till  the  New  Year.  But  you  are 
no  longer  a  child ;  you  should  call  me  by 
name — Maria  Dmitrievna.' 

1  This  is,  of  course,  only  a  child's  way  of  addressing 
an  elder. — Tr. 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  27 

Sashka,  feeling  as  if  he  were  falling  down 
a  precipice,  grasped  the  last  means  of  saving 
himself. 

'  I  am  sorry  I  have  been  naughty.  I'll  be 
more  industrious  for  the  future,'  he  blurted 
out.  But  this  formula,  which  had  always 
paid  with  his  masters,  made  no  impression 
upon  the  lady  of  the  grey  hair. 

'A  good  thing,  too,  my  friend/  she  said, 
as  unconcernedly  as  before. 

'  Give  me  the  little  angel,'  demanded 
Sashka,  gruffly. 

'  But  it's  impossible.  Can't  you  under- 
stand that  ? ' 

But  Sashka  did  not  understand,  and  when 
the  lady  turned  to  go  out  of  the  room  he  fol- 
lowed her,  his  gaze  fixed  without  conscious 
thought  upon  her  black  silk  dress.  In  his 
surging  brain  there  glimmered  a  recollection 
of  how  one  of  the  boys  in  his  class  had  asked 
the  master  to  mark  him  3,1  and  when  the 
master  refused  he  had  knelt  down  before  him, 
and  putting  his  hands  together  as  in  prayer, 
had  begun  to  cry.  The  master  was  angry, 
but  gave  him  3  all  the  same.  At  the  time 
Sashka  had  immortalised  this  episode  in  a 
caricature,  but  now  his  only  means  left  was 
to  follow  the  boy's  example.  Accordingly 

1  In  Russian  schools  5  is  the  maximum  mark.— Jr. 


28  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

he  plucked  at  the  lady's  dress  again,  and 
when  she  turned  round,  dropped  with  a  bang 
on  to  his  knees,  and  folded  his  hands  as  de- 
scribed above.  But  he  could  not  squeeze 
out  a  single  tear  ! 

'  Are  you  out  of  your  mind  ?  '  exclaimed 
the  grey-haired  lady,  casting  a  searching 
look  round  the  room  ;  but  luckily  no  one  was 
present. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  ' 

Kneeling  there  with  clasped  hands,  Sashka 
looked  at  her  with  dislike,  and  rudely  re- 
peated : 

'  Give  me  the  little  angel.' 

His  eyes,  fixed  intently  on  the  lady  to 
catch  the  first  word  she  should  utter,  were 
anything  but  good  to  look  at,  and  the  hostess 
answered  hurriedly  : 

1  Well,  then,  I'll  give  it  to  you.  Ah  !  what 
a  stupid  you  are  !  I  will  give  you  what  you 
want,  but  why  could  you  not  wait  till  the 
New  Year  ?  ' 

'  Stand  up  !  And.  never,'  she  added  in  a 
didactic  tone,  '  never  kneel  to  any  one  :  it 
is  humiliating.  Kneel  before  God  alone.' 

'  Talk  away  ! '  thought  Sashka,  trying  to 
get  in  front  of  her,  and  merely  succeeding  in 
treading  on  her  dress. 

When  she  had  taken  the  toy  from  the  tree, 
Sashka  devoured  her  with  his  eyes,  but 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  29 

stretched  out  his  hands  for  it  with  a 
painful  pucker  of  the  nose.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  tall  lady  would  break  the  little 
angel. 

'  Beautiful  thing ! '  said  the  lady,  who 
was  sorry  to  part  with  such  a  dainty  and 
presumably  expensive  toy.  '  Who  can  have 
hung  it  there  ?  Well,  what  do  you  want 
with  such  a  thing  ?  Are  you  not  too  big  to 
know  what  to  do  with  it  ?  Look,  there  are 
some  picture-books.  But  this  I  promised  to 
give  to  Kolya ;  he  begged  so  earnestly  for 
it.'  But  this  was  not  the  truth. 

Sashka's  agony  became  unbearable.  He 
clenched  his  teeth  convulsively,  and  seemed 
almost  to  grind  them.  The  lady  of  the  grey 
hair  feared  nothing  so  much  as  a  scene,  so 
she  slowly  held  out  the  little  angel  to  Sash- 
ka. 

'  There  now,  take  it ! '  she  said  in  a  dis- 
pleased tone ;  '  what  a  persistent  boy  you 
are!' 

Sashka's  hands  as  they  seized  the  little 
angel  seemed  like  tentacles,  and  were  tense 
as  steel  springs,  but  withal  so  soft  and  careful 
that  the  little  angel  might  have  imagined 
himself  to  be  flying  in  the  air. 

'  A-h-h ! '  escaped  in  a  long  diminuendo 
sigh  from  Sashka's  breast,  while  in  his  eyes 
glistened  two  little  tear-drops,  which  stood 


30  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

still  there  as  though  unused  to  the  light. 
Slowly  drawing  the  little  angel  to  his  bosom, 
he  kept  his  shining  eyes  on  the  hostess,  with 
a  quiet,  tender  smile  which  died  away  in  a 
feeling  of  unearthly  bliss.  It  seemed,  when 
the  dainty  wings  of  the  little  angel  touched 
Sashka's  sunken  breast,  as  if  he  experienced 
something  so  blissful,  so  bright,  the  like  of 
which  had  never  before  been  experienced  in 
this  sorrowful,  sinful,  suffering  world. 

'  A-h-h ! '  sighed  he  once  more  as  the 
little  angel's  wings  touched  him.  And  at  the 
shining  of  his  face  the  absurdly  decorated  and 
insolently  glowing  tree  seemed  to  be  extin- 
guished, and  the  grey-haired,  portly  dame 
smiled  with  gladness,  and  the  parchment- 
like  face  of  the  bald-headed  gentleman 
twitched,  and  the  children  fell  into  a  vivid 
silence  as  though  touched  by  a  breath  of 
human  happiness. 

For  one  short  moment  all  observed  a  mys- 
terious likeness  between  the  awkward  boy 
who  had  outgrown  his  clothes,  and  the  linea- 
ments of  the  little  angel,  which  had  been 
spiritualised  by  the  hand  of  an  unknown 
artist. 

But  the  next  moment  the  picture  was 
entirely  changed.  Crouching  like  a  panther 
preparing  to  spring,  Sashka  surveyed  the 
surrounding  company,  on  the  look-out  for 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  31 

some  one  who  should  dare  wrest  his  little 
angel  from  him. 

'  I'm  going  home,'  he  said  in  a  dull  voice, 
having  in  view  a  way  of  escape  through  the 
crowd,  '  home  to  Father.' 


Ill 

His  mother  was  asleep  worn  out  with  a 
whole  day's  work  and  vodka-drinking.  In 
the  little  room  behind  the  partition  there 
stood  a  small  cooking-lamp  burning  on  the 
table.  Its  feeble  yellow  light,  with  diffi- 
culty penetrating  the  sooty  glass,  threw 
a  strange  shadow  over  the  faces  of  Sashka 
and  his  father. 

'  Is  it  not  pretty  ?  '  asked  Sashka  in  a 
whisper,  holding  the  little  angel  at  a  dis- 
tance from  his  father,  so  as  not  to  allow  him 
to  touch  it. 

'  Yes,  there's  something  most  remark- 
able about  him,'  whispered  the  father,  gazing 
thoughtfully  at  the  toy.  And  his  face  ex- 
pressed the  same  concentrated  attention 
and  delight,  as  did  Sashka's. 

'  Look,  he  is  going  to  fly.' 

'  I  see  it  too,'  replied  Sashka  in  an  ecstasy. 
'Think  I'm  blind?  But  look  at  his  little 
wings  !  Ah  !  don't  touch  !  ' 

The  father  withdrew  his  hand,  and  with 

32 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  33 

troubled  eyes  studied  the  details  of  the  little 
angel,  while  Sashka  whispered  with  the  air 
of  a  pedagogue  : 

*  Father,  what  a  bad  habit  you  have  of 
touching  everything  !  You  might  break  it.' 

There  fell  upon  the  wall  the  shadows  of 
two  grotesque,  motionless  heads  bending 
towards  one  another,  one  big  and  shaggy, 
the  other  small  and  round. 

Within  the  big  head  strange  torturing 
thoughts,  though  at  the  same  time  full  of 
delight,  were  seething.  His  eyes  unblink- 
ingly  regarded  the  little  angel,  and  under 
his  steadfast  gaze  it  seemed  to  grow  larger 
and  brighter,  and  its  wings  to  tremble  with 
a  noiseless  trepidation,  and  all  the  surround- 
ings— the  timber-built,  soot-stained  wall, 
the  dirty  table,  Sashka — everything  became 
fused  into  one  level  grey  mass  without  light 
or  shade.  It  seemed  to  the  broken  man 
that  he  heard  a  pitying  voice  from  the  world 
of  wonders,  wherein  once  he  had  dwelt,  and 
whence  he  had  been  cast  out  for  ever.  There 
they  knew  nothing  of  dirt,  of  weary  quar- 
relling, of  the  blindly-cruel  strife  of  egotism, 
there  they  knew  nothing  of  the  tortures  of 
a  man  arrested  in  the  streets  with  callous 
laughter,  and  beaten  by  the  rough  hand  of 
the  night-watchman.  There  everything  is 
pure,  joyful,  bright.  And  all  this  purity 


34  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

found  an  asylum  in  the  soul  of  her  whom  he 
loved  more  than  life,  and  had  lost — when 
he  had  kept  his  hold  upon  his  own  useless 
life.  With  the  smell  of  wax,  which  eman- 
ated from  the  toy,  was  mingled  a  subtle 
aroma,  and  it  seemed  to  the  broken  man 
that  her  dear  fingers  touched  the  angel, 
those  fingers  which  he  would  fain  have 
caressed  in  one  long  kiss,  till  death  should 
close  his  lips  for  ever.  This  was  why  the  little 
toy  was  so  beautiful,  this  was  why  there 
was  in  it  something  specially  attractive, 
which  defied  description.  The  little  angel 
had  descended  from  that  heaven  which  her 
soul  was  to  him,  and  had  brought  a  ray  of 
light  into  the  damp  room,  steeped  in  sul- 
phurous fumes,  and  to  the  dark  soul  of  the 
man  from  whom  had  been  taken  all  :  love, 
and  happiness,  and  life. 

On  a  level  with  the  eyes  of  the  man,  who 
had  lived  his  life,  sparkled  the  eyes  of  the 
boy,  who  was  beginning  his  life,  and  em- 
braced the  little  angel  in  their  caress.  For 
them  present  and  future  had  disappeared  : 
the  ever-sorrowful,  piteous  father,  the  rough, 
unendurable  mother,  the  black  darkness  of 
insults,  of  cruelty,  of  humiliations,  and  of 
spiteful  grief.  The  thoughts  of  Sashka  were 
formless,  nebulous,  but  all  the  more  deeply 
for  that  did  they  move  his  agitated  soul. 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  35 

Everything  that  is  good  and  bright  in  the 
world,  all  profound  grief,  and  the  hope  of 
a  soul  that  sighs  for  God — the  little  angel 
absorbed  them  all  into  himself,  and  that 
was  why  he  glowed  with  such  a  soft  divine 
radiance,  that  was  why  his  little  dragon- 
fly wings  trembled  with  a  noiseless  trepida- 
tion. 

The  father  and  son  did  not  look  at  one 
another :  their  sick  hearts  grieved,  wept, 
and  rejoiced  apart.  But  there  was  a  some- 
thing in  their  thoughts  which  fused  their 
hearts  in  one,  and  annihilated  that  bottom- 
less abyss  which  separates  man  from  man 
and  makes  him  so  lonely,  unhappy,  and 
weak.  The  father  with  an  unconscious 
motion  put  his  arm  round  the  neck  of  his 
son,  and  the  son's  head  rested  equally  with- 
out conscious  volition  upon  his  father's 
consumptive  chest. 

'  She  it  was  who  gave  it  to  thee,  was  it 
not  ?  '  whispered  the  father,  without  taking 
his  eyes  off  the  little  angel. 

At  another  time  Sashka  would  have 
replied  with  a  rude  negation,  but  now  the 
only  reply  possible  resounded  of  itself  within 
his  soul,  and  he  calmly  pronounced  the  pious 
fraud  :  '  Who  else  ?  of  course  she  did.' 

The  father  made  no  reply,  and  Sashka 
relapsed  into  silence, 


36  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

Something  grated  in  the  adjoining  room, 
then  clicked,  and  then  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  and  then  noisily  and  hurriedly  the 
clock  struck  '  One,  two,  three.' 

'  Sashka,  do  you  ever  dream  ?  '  asked  the 
father  in  a  meditative  tone. 

'  No !  Oh,  yes,'  he  admitted,  '  once  I 
had  one,  in  which  I  fell  down  from  the  roof. 
We  were  climbing  after  the  pigeons,  and  I 
fell  down.' 

'  But  I  dream  always.  Strange  things 
are  dreams.  One  sees  the  whole  past,  one 
loves  and  suffers  as  though  it  were  reality.' 

Again  he  was  silent,  and  Sashka  felt  his 
arm  tremble  as  it  lay  upon  his  neck.  The 
trembling  and  pressure  of  his  father's  arm 
became  stronger  and  stronger,  and  the 
sensitive  silence  of  the  night  was  all  at  once 
broken  by  the  pitiful  sobbing  sound  of  sup- 
pressed weeping.  Sashka  sternly  puckered 
his  brow,  and  cautiously — so  as  not  to 
disturb  the  heavy  trembling  arm — wiped 
away  a  tear  from  his  eyes.  So  strange  was 
it  to  see  a  big  old  man  crying. 

'  Ah  !  Sashka,  Sashka,'  sobbed  the  father, 
'  what  is  the  meaning  of  everything  ?  ' 

'  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  '  sternly  whis- 
pered Sashka.  '  You're  crying  just  like  a 
little  boy.' 

'Well,    I    won't,    then,'   said   the   father 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  37 

with   a  piteous   smile   of  excuse.     '  What's 
the  good  ?  ' 

Feoktista  Petrovna  turned  on  her  bed. 
She  sighed,  cleared  her  throat,  and  mumbled 
incoherent  sounds  in  a  loud  and  strangely 
persistent  manner. 

It  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  But  before 
doing  so  the  little  angel  must  be  disposed 
of  for  the  night.  He  could  not  be  left  on 
the  floor,  so  he  was  hung  up  by  his  string, 
which  was  fastened  to  the  flue  of  the  stove. 
There  it  stood  out  accurately  delineated 
against  the  white  Dutch-tiles.  And  so  they 
could  both  see  him,  Sashka  and  his  father. 

Hurriedly  throwing  into  a  corner  the 
various  rags  on  which  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  sleeping,  Sashka  lay  down  on  his  back, 
in  order  as  quickly  as  possible  to  look  again 
at  the  little  angel. 

'  Why  don't  you  undress  ?  '  asked  his 
father  as  he  shivered  and  wrapped  himself 
up  in  his  tattered  blanket,  and  arranged  his 
clothes,  which  he  had  thrown  over  his  feet. 

'  What's  the  good  ?  I  shall  soon  be  up 
again.' 

Sashka  wished  to  add  that  he  did  not  care 
to  go  to  sleep  at  all,  but  he  had  no  time  to 
do  so,  since  he  fell  to  sleep  as  suddenly  as 
though  he  had  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  a  deep 
swift  river. 


38  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

His  father  presently  fell  asleep  also.  And 
gentle  sleep  and  restfulness  lay  upon  the 
weary  face  of  the  man  who  had  lived  his 
life,  and  upon  the  brave  face  of  the  little 
man  who  was  just  beginning  his  life. 

But  the  little  angel  hanging  by  the  hot 
stove  began  to  melt.  The  lamp,  which  had 
been  left  burning  at  the  entreaty  of  Sashka, 
filled  the  room  with  the  smell  of  kerosene, 
and  through  its  smoked  glass  threw  a  melan- 
choly light  upon  a  scene  of  gradual  disso- 
lution. The  little  angel  seemed  to  stir. 
Over  his  rosy  fingers  there  rolled  thick  drops 
which  fell  upon  the  bench.  To  the  smell 
of  kerosene  was  added  the  stifling  scent  of 
melting  wax.  The  little  angel  gave  a  tremble 
as  though  on  the  point  of  flight,  and — fell 
with  a  soft  thud  upon  the  hot  flags. 

An  inquisitive  cockroach  singed  its  wings 
as  it  ran  round  the  formless  lump  of  melted 
wax,  climbed  up  the  dragon-fly  wings,  and 
twitching  its  feelers  went  on  its  way. 

Through  the  curtained  window  the  grey- 
blue  light  of  coming  day  crept  in,  and  the 
frozen  water-carrier  was  already  making  a 
noise  in  the  courtyard  with  his  iron  scoop. 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION 

IT  was  early  spring  when  I  went  to  the 
bungalow.  On  the  road  still  lay  last  year's 
darkened  leaves.  I  was  unaccompanied ; 
and  alone  I  wandered  through  the  still 
empty  bungalow,  the  windows  of  which 
reflected  the  April  sun.  I  mounted  the 
broad  bright  terraces,  and  wondered  who 
would  live  here  under  the  green  canopy  of 
birch  and  oak.  And  when  I  closed  my  eyes 
I  seemed  to  hear  quick,  cheerful  footsteps, 
youthful  song,  and  the  ringing  sound  of 
women's  laughter. 

I  used  often  to  go  to  the  station  to  meet 
the  passenger  trains.  I  was  not  expecting 
any  one,  for  there  was  no  one  to  come  and 
see  me ;  but  I  am  fond  of  those  iron  giants, 
when  they  rush  past,  rolling  their  shoulders, 
tearing  along  the  rails  with  colossal  mo- 
mentum, and  carrying  somewhither  persons 
unknown  to  me,  but  still  my  fellow-creatures. 
They  seem  to  me  alive  and  uncanny.  In 
their  speed  I  recognize  the  immensity  of 

39 


40     AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION 

the  world  and  the  might  of  man,  and  when 
they  whistle  with  such  abandon  and  in  so 
imperious  a  manner,  I  think  how  they  are 
whistling  in  the  same  way  in  America,  and 
Asia,  maybe  in  torrid  Africa. 

The  station  was  a  small  one,  with  two 
short  sidings,  and  when  the  passenger  train 
had  left  it  became  still  and  deserted.  The 
forest  and  the  streaming  sunshine  dominated 
the  little  low  platform  and  the  desolate 
track,  and  blended  the  rails  in  silence  and 
light.  On  one  of  the  sidings  under  an  empty 
sleeping-car  fowls  wandered  about,  swarm- 
ing round  the  iron  wheels,  and  one  could 
hardly  believe,  as  one  watched  their  peaceful, 
fussy  activity,  that  it  would  be  much  the 
same  in  America,  in  Asia,  or  in  torrid  Africa. 
...  In  a  week  I  became  acquainted  with 
all  the  inhabitants  of  this  little  corner,  and 
saluted  as  acquaintances  the  watchmen  in 
their  blue  blouses,  and  the  silent  pointsmen 
with  their  dull  countenances  and  their  brass 
horns,  which  glittered  in  the  sun. 

Every  day  I  saw  at  the  station  a  gen- 
darme. He  was  a  healthy,  strong  fellow, 
as  are  they  all,  with  broad  back,  in  a  tightly 
stretched  blue  uniform,  with  enormous  arms 
and  a  youthful  countenance,  upon  which, 
from  behind  a  severe  official  dignity,  there 
still  looked  out  the  blue-eyed  naivete  of  the 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION      41 

country.  At  first  he  used  to  scan  me  all 
over  with  a  gloomy  suspicion,  and  put  on 
a  look  of  unapproachable  severity  without 
a  touch  of  indulgence,  and  when  he  passed 
me  would  clank  his  spurs  in  a  peculiarly 
sharp  and  eloquent  manner.  But  he  soon 
became  used  to  me,  just  as  he  had  become 
used  to  the  pillars  which  supported  the  roof 
of  the  platform,  to  the  desolate  track,  and 
to  the  discarded  sleeping-car  under  which 
the  fowls  kept  running  about.  In  such 
quiet  corners  a  habit  is  soon  formed.  And 
when  he  left  off  observing  me,  I  perceived 
that  this  man  was  bored — bored  as  no  one 
else  in  the  world.  He  was  bored  with  the 
wearisome  station,  bored  by  the  absence 
of  thoughts,  bored  by  his  strength-devour- 
ing inactivity,  bored  by  the  exclusiveness 
of  his  position,  somewhere  in  the  void  be- 
tween the  station-master,  who  was  unap- 
proachable to  him,  and  the  lower  employes 
to  whom  he  was  himself  unapproachable. 
His  soul  lived  on  breaches  of  the  peace,  but 
at  this  tiny  station  no  one  ever  committed 
a  breach  of  the  peace,  and  every  time  the 
passenger  train  departed  without  any  adven- 
ture there  passed  over  the  face  of  the  gen- 
darme the  expression  of  annoyance  and 
vexation  of  a  person  who  has  been  deprived 
of  his  due.  For  some  minutes  he  would 


42      AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION 

stand  still  in  indecision,  and  then  with  list- 
less gait  walk  to  the  other  end  of  the  plat- 
form without  any  aim  or  object.  On  his 
way  he  might  stop  for  a  second  in  front  of 
some  peasant  woman  who  had  been  waiting 
for  the  train — but  she  was  only  a  peasant 
woman  like  any  other — and  so  knitting  his 
brows  the  gendarme  would  pass  on  his  way. 
Then  he  would  sit  down  stout  and  list- 
less, as  though  he  had  been  boiled  soft,  and 
felt  how  soft  and  flabby  were  his  useless 
arms  under  the  cloth  of  his  uniform,  and 
how  his  powerful  body,  created  for  work, 
grew  weary  with  the  torturing  fatigue  of 
doing  nothing.  We  are  bored  only  in  the 
head,  but  he  was  bored  in  every  part  of  him, 
from  head  to  foot :  his  cap,  cocked  on  one 
side  with  youthful  lack  of  purpose,  was 
bored,  his  spurs  were  bored  and  tinkled 
inharmoniously  and  irregularly  as  though 
muffled.  Then  he  began  to  yawn.  How 
he  yawned !  his  mouth  became  contorted, 
expanded  from  ear  to  ear,  grew  broader  and 
broader,  till  it  swallowed  up  his  whole  face, 
it  seemed  that  in  another  second,  through 
the  ever  enlarging  aperture,  you  would  be 
able  to  see  down  his  throat,  choke-full  of 
greasy  soup.  How  he  yawned  !  He  went 
away  in  a  hurry,  but  for  long  that  awful 
yawn  seemed  to  put  my  jaw-bone  out  of 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION      43 

joint,  and  the  trees  were  broken  and  bobbing 
about  to  my  tear-filled  eyes. 

Once  from  the  mail  train  they  took  a 
passenger  travelling  without  a  ticket,  and 
this  was  a  very  festival  for  the  bored  gen- 
darme. He  drew  himself  up,  his  spurs 
jingled  with  precision  and  austerity,  his 
face  became  concentrated  and  angry ;  but 
his  happiness  was  but  short-lived.  The 
passenger  paid  his  fare,  and  with  a  hasty 
oath  got  back  into  the  car,  and  in  the  rear 
the  metal  rowels  of  the  gendarme's  spurs 
gave  a  disconcerted  and  piteous  rattle,  as 
his  enervated  body  swayed  feebly  over 
them. 

And  at  times  when  he  yawned  he  became 
to  me  something  terrible. 

For  some  days  workmen  had  been  busy 
about  the  station  clearing  the  site,  and  when 
I  returned  from  town  after  a  stay  of  a  couple 
of  days,  the  masons  were  laying  the  third 
row  of  bricks  ;  a  brand-new  building  was 
arising.  These  masons  were  numerous,  and 
worked  quickly  and  skilfully  ;  and  it  was 
a  strange  pleasure  to  watch  the  straight, 
even  wall  springing  up  out  of  the  ground. 
When  they  had  covered  one  row  with  mortar 
they  laid  on  a  second  row,  adjusting  the 
bricks  according  to  their  dimensions,  laying 
them  now  on  the  broad  side,  now  on  the 


44      AT  THE   ROADSIDE  STATION 

narrow,  and  cutting  off  the  corners  to  make 
them  fit.  They  worked  meditatively,  and 
though  the  course  of  their  meditation  was 
evident  enough,  and  their  problem  clear, 
still  it  gave  an  additional  charm  and  interest 
to  the  work.  I  was  looking  at  them  with 
enjoyment  when  an  authoritative  voice  at 
my  elbow  shouted : 

'  Look  here,  you,  What's  your  name  !  Why 
don't  you  put  this  right  ?  ' 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  gendarme,  squeezing 
himself  through  the  iron  railings,  which 
separated  the  asphalt  platform  from  the 
workmen  ;  he  was  pointing  to  a  certain  brick 
and  insisting :  '  You  with  the  beard !  lay 
that  brick  properly.  Don't  you  see,  it's  a 
half-brick  ? ' 

The  mason  with  the  beard,  which  was  in 
places  whitened  with  lime,  turned  round  in 
silence — the  gendarme's  face  was  severe  and 
imposing — in  silence  he  followed  the  direction 
of  the  gendarme's  finger,  took  up  the  brick, 
trimmed  it,  and  in  silence  put  it  back  in  its 
place.  The  gendarme  gave  me  a  severe  look 
and  went  away ;  but  the  seductive  interest 
in  the  work  was  stronger  than  his  sense  of 
dignity.  When  he  had  made  a  couple  of 
turns  on  the  platform,  he  again  came  to  a 
standstill  in  front  of  the  workmen,  adopting  a 
somewhat  careless  and  contemptuous  pose. 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION      45 

But  his  face  no  longer  showed  signs  of  bore- 
dom. 

I  went  to  the  wood,  and  when  I  was  return- 
ing through  the  station  it  was  one  o'clock,  the 
workmen  were  resting,  and  the  place  was 
empty  as  usual.  But  some  one  was  busying 
himself  about  the  unfinished  wall ;  it  was 
the  gendarme.  He  was  taking  up  bricks, 
and  finishing  the  fifth  row.  I  could  only 
catch  a  sight  of  his  broad,  tightly  stretched 
back,  but  it  was  expressive  of  intent  thought, 
and  indecision.  Evidently  the  work  was 
more  complicated  than  he  had  imagined. 
His  unaccustomed  eye  was  playing  him  false  ; 
he  stepped  back,  shook  his  head,  stooped  for  a 
fresh  brick,  striking  the  ground  with  his  sabre 
as  he  bent  down.  Once  he  raised  his  finger, 
in  the  classic  gesture  of  one  who  has  discovered 
the  solution  of  a  problem,  such  as  might 
have  been  used  by  Archimedes  himself,  and 
his  back  once  more  assumed  the  erect  attitude 
of  greater  self-confidence  and  certainty.  But 
immediately  it  became  once  more  doubled  up 
in  the  consciousness  of  the  undignified  nature 
of  the  work  undertaken.  There  was  in  his 
whole,  full-grown  figure  something  secretive 
as  with  children,  when  they  are  afraid  they 
will  be  found  out. 

I  carelessly  struck  a  match  to  light  a  cigar- 
ette, and  the  gendarme  turned  round  startled. 


46      AT  THE   ROADSIDE  STATION 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  me  in  confusion, 
and  suddenly  his  youthful  countenance  was 
illumined  by  a  slightly  solicitous,  confiding, 
and  kindly  smile.  But  the  very  next  moment 
he  resumed  his  austere,  unapproachable  look, 
and  his  hand  went  up  to  his  little  thin  mous- 
tache— but  in  it,  in  that  very  hand,  there  still 
lay  that  unlucky  brick!  And  I  saw  how 
painfully  ashamed  he  was  of  that  brick, 
and  of  his  involuntary,  compromising  smile. 
Apparently  he  did  not  know  how  to  blush, 
otherwise  he  would  have  become  as  red  as  the 
brick  which  he  still  held  helplessly  in  his  hand. 
They  had  carried  the  wall  up  half  way,  and 
it  was  no  longer  possible  to  see  what  the  skil- 
ful masons  were  doing  on  their  scaffolding. 
Once  more  the  gendarme  oscillated  from  end 
to  end  of  the  platform,  yawning,  and  when  he 
turned  round  and  passed  me  I  could  feel  that 
he  was  ashamed — and  that  he  hated  me. 
And  as  I  looked  at  his  powerful  arms  listlessly 
swinging  in  their  sleeves,  at  his  inharmoniously 
jingling  spurs,  and  trailing  sabre,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  it  was  all  unreal — that  in  the  scab- 
bard there  was  no  sabre  at  all  with  which  he 
might  cut  a  man  down,  in  the  case  no  re- 
volver, with  which  he  might  shoot  a  man 
dead.  And  his  very  uniform,  that  too  was 
unreal,  and  seemed  as  though  it  was  all  just 
some  strange  masquerade  taking  place  in  full 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION      47 

daylight,  in  the  face  of  the  honest  April 
sun,  and  amidst  ordinary  working  people, 
and  busy  fowls  picking  up  grains  under  the 
sleeping-car. 

But  at  times — at  times  I  began  to  fear  for 
some  one.    He  was  so  terribly  bored.  .  . 


SNAPPER 


HE  belonged  to  no  one,  he  had  no  name  of  his 
own,  and  none  could  say  where  he  spent  the 
long,  frosty  winter,  or  how  he  was  fed.  The 
house-dogs  hungry  as  himself,  but  proud  and 
strong  from  the  consciousness  of  belonging 
to  a  house,  would  chase  him  away  from  the 
warm  cottages.  When  driven  by  hunger  or 
an  instinctive  need  of  company,  he  showed 
himself  in  the  street,  the  boys  pelted  him 
with  stones  and  sticks,  while  the  grown-ups 
gave  a  merry  whoop,  or  a  terribly  piercing 
whistle.  Distraught  with  fear  he  would  dart 
about  from  side  to  side,  and  stumbling  against 
the  fences  and  people's  legs,  would  run  as  fast 
as  he  could  to  the  end  of  the  village,  and  hide 
himself  in  the  depths  of  a  large  garden  in  a 
place  known  only  to  himself.  There  he  would 
lick  his  bruises  and  wounds,  and  in  solitude 
heap  up  terror  and  malice. 

Once  only  had  he  been  pitied  and  petted. 
This  was  by  a  peasant,  a  drunkard,  who  was 

I~A.  49  4 


50  SNAPPER 

returning  from  the  public  house.  Just  then 
he  loved  all  things,  and  pitied  all,  and  said 
something  in  his  beard  about  kind  people, 
and  the  trust  he  himself  put  in  kind  people. 
He  pitied  even  the  dirty,  unlovely  dog,  on 
which  by  chance  his  drunken,  aimless  glance 
had  fallen. 

'  Doggie/  said  he,  calling  it  by  a  name 
common  to  all  dogs ;  '  Doggie,  come  here, 
don't  be  afraid.' 

Doggie  wanted  very  much  to  come.  He 
wagged  his  tail,  but  could  not  make  up  his 
mind.  The  peasant  patted  his  knee  with  his 
hand,  and  repeated  reassuringly : 

'  Come  along,  then,  silly.  I  swear  I  won't 
hurt  you.' 

But  while  the  dog  was  hesitating,  wagging 
its  tail  more  and  more  energetically,  and 
advancing  with  short  steps,  the  humour  of 
the  drunkard  changed.  He  recalled  all  the 
insults  that  had  been  heaped  on  him  by  kind 
people,  and  felt  angry  and  dully  malicious, 
so  that  when  Doggie  lay  on  his  back  before 
him,  he  gave  him  a  vicious  kick  in  the  side 
with  the  toe  of  his  heavy  boot. 

'  Garn  !  Dirty  !  Where  are  you  coming 
to!' 

The  dog  began  to  whimper,  more  from 
surprise  and  the  insult,  than  from  pain,  and 
the  peasant  staggered  home,  where  he  gave 


SNAPPER  51 

his  wife  a  savage  beating,  and  tore  to  pieces  a 
new  kerchief  which  he  had  bought  for  her  as  a 
present  the  week  before. 

From  this  time  forth  the  dog  ceased  to 
trust  people  who  wished  to  pet  it,  and  either 
put  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  ran  away, 
or  sometimes  would  fly  at  them  angrily  and 
try  to  bite  them,  until  they  succeeded  in 
driving  him  away  with  stones  or  a  stick. 
For  one  winter  he  had  taken  up  his  abode 
under  the  verandah  of  an  unoccupied  bunga- 
low which  was  without  a  caretaker,  and  took 
care  of  it  for  nothing.  By  night  he  ran  about 
the  streets  and  barked  till  he  was  hoarse,  and 
long  after  he  had  lain  himself  down  in  his 
place,  he  would  keep  up  an  angry  growl,  but 
beneath  the  anger  there  was  apparent  a  certain 
amount  of  content,  and  even  pride,  in  himself. 

The  winter  nights  dragged  themselves  out 
slowly,  and  the  black  windows  of  the  empty 
bungalow  gazed  grimly  on  the  motionless, 
icy  garden.  Sometimes  blue  lights  seemed 
to  kindle  in  them,  at  others  a  falling  star 
would  be  reflected  in  the  panes,  or  again  the 
sharp-horned  moon  would  throw  on  them  its 
timid  ray. 


II 

SPRING  came  on,  and  the  quiet  bungalow  was 
all  a-voice  with  loud  talk,  the  creaking  of 
wheels,  and  the  stamping  of  people  moving 
heavy  things.  The  owners  had  arrived  from 
the  city,  a  whole  merry  troop  of  grown-up 
people,  of  half-grown-ups  and  children,  all 
intoxicated  with  the  air,  the  warmth  and  the 
light.  Some  shouted,  some  sang,  and  some 
laughed  with  shrill  female  voices. 

The  first  with  whom  the  dog  made  ac- 
quaintance was  a  pretty  girl,  who  ran  out  into 
the  garden  in  a  formal,  cinnamon-coloured 
dress.1  Greedily  and  impatiently  desiring  to 
seize  and  hug  in  her  embrace  everything 
visible,  she  looked  at  the  clear  sky,  at  the 
reddish  cherry  twigs,  and  lay  quickly  down 
on  the  grass  with  her  face  towards  the  burning 
sun.  Then  she  got  up  again  as  suddenly, 
and  hugging  herself,  and  kissing  the  Spring 
air  with  her  fresh  lips,  said  expressively  and 
seriously : 

1  Such  as  is  worn  by  schoolgirls  and  girl  students. — 
Tr. 

52 


SNAPPER  53 

•  Well,  this  is  jolly  ! ' 

She  spoke,  and  then  suddenly  turned  round. 
At  this  very  moment  the  dog  noiselessly  ap- 
proached, and  furiously  seized  the  extended 
skirt  of  her  dress  in  its  teeth  and  tore  it, 
and  then  as  noiselessly  disappeared  into  the 
thick  gooseberry  and  currant  bushes. 

'  Oh  !  bad  dog  ! '  cried  the  girl,  running 
away,  and  for  long  might  be  heard  her  agitated 
voice  :  '  Mamma  !  children  !  don't  go  into 
the  garden.  There  is  a  dog  there,  such  a 
great,  big,  fierce  one  ! ' 

At  night  the  dog  crept  up  to  the  sleeping 
bungalow,  and  noiselessly  lay  down  in  its 
place  under  the  verandah.  It  smelt  of 
people,  and  through  the  open  windows  was 
borne  the  soft  sound  of  gentle  breathing. 
The  people  were  asleep,  they  were  powerless 
and  no  longer  terrible,  and  the  dog  jealously 
guarded  them.  He  slept  with  one  eye  open, 
and  at  every  rustle  stretched  out  his  head 
with  its  two  motionless  phosphorescent  eyes. 
But  the  alarming  noises  were  so  many  in  the 
sensitive  Spring  night :  in  the  grass  something 
small  and  unseen  rustled,  and  came  quite 
close  to  the  shiny  nose  of  the  dog  ;  last  year's 
twigs  crackled  under  the  feet  of  sleeping  birds, 
and  on  the  neighbouring  road  a  cart  rumbled, 
and  heavily-laden  wains  creaked.  And  afar 
off  round  about  in  the  motionless  air  was 


54  SNAPPER 

diffused  the  sweet,  fresh  scent  of  resin,  and 
lured  one  into  the  lightening  distance. 

The  owners  who  had  arrived  at  the  bunga- 
low were  very  kind  people,  and  all  the  more 
so  now  that  they  were  far  from  the  city, 
breathing  pure  air,  seeing  around  them  every- 
thing green,  and  blue  and  harmless.  The 
sunlight  went  into  them  in  warmth,  and 
came  out  again  in  laughter  and  goodwill 
towards  all  things  living.  At  first  they 
wished  to  drive  away  the  dog,  of  which  they 
were  afraid,  and  even  shot  at  it  with  a  re- 
volver, when  it  would  not  take  itself  off ; 
but  later  they  became  accustomed  to  its 
barking  at  night,  and  even  sometimes  re- 
membered it  in  the  morning : 

'  But  where's  our  Snapper  ?  ' 

And  this  new  name  '  Snapper '  stuck  to  it. 
Sometimes  even  by  day  they  would  notice 
among  the  bushes  its  dark  body,  which  would 
fall  flat  on  the  ground  at  the  first  motion  of  a 
hand  throwing  bread — as  though  it  were  a 
stone,  not  bread, — and  soon  all  became 
accustomed  to  Snapper,  and  called  him  '  our 
dog/  and  joked  about  the  cause  of  his  shyness 
and  unreasonable  fear.  Each  day  Snapper 
diminished  by  one  step  the  distance  which 
separated  him  from  the  people ;  he  grew 
accustomed  to  their  faces,  and  adopted  their 
habits.  Half  an  hour  before  dinner  he  would 


SNAPPER  55 

be  already  standing  in  the  shrubs,  blinking 
with  a  conciliatory  air.  And  that  same  little 
schoolgirl  it  was,  who,  forgetting  the  former 
outrage,  brought  the  dog  definitely  into  the 
happy  circle  of  cheerful,  restful  people. 

'  Snapper,  come  here,'  said  she,  calling 
him.  '  Good  dog,  come  here.  Do  you  like 
sugar  ?  I'll  give  you  a  lump.  Come  along, 
then.' 

But  Snapper  would  not  come ;  he  was 
afraid.  Then  cautiously  patting  her  knee, 
and  speaking  with  all  the  caressing  kindness 
of  a  beautiful  voice  and  a  pretty  face,  Lelya 
approached  the  dog,  but  was  in  her  turn 
afraid  ;  suddenly  he  snapped. 

'  I  am  so  fond  of  you,  Snapper,  dear ; 
you  have  such  a  nice  little  nose,  and  such 
expressive  eyes.  Won't  you  trust  me,  Snap- 
perkin  ?  ' 

Lelya  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  her  own 
little  nose  was  so  pretty  and  her  eyes  so 
expressive,  that  the  sun  acted  wisely  in  cover- 
ing all  her  little  youthful,  naively  charming 
face  with  hot  kisses,  till  her  cheeks  were  red. 

Snapper  for  the  second  time  in  his  life 
turned  on  his  back  and  closed  his  eyes,  not 
knowing  for  a  certainty  whether  he  was  to  be 
kicked  or  petted.  But  he  was  petted.  Small 
warm  hands  touched  irresolutely  his  woolly 
head,  and  as  though  this  were  a  sign  of  un- 


56  SNAPPER 

deniable  authority,  began  freely  and  boldly 
to  run  over  the  whole  of  his  hairy  body, 
rumpling,  petting,  and  tickling. 

'  Mamma  !  children  !  look  here,  I'm  petting 
Snapper/  cried  Lelya. 

When  the  children  ran  up,  noisy,  loud- 
voiced,  quick  and  bright  as  drops  of  uncon- 
trollable mercury,  Snapper  cowed  down  in 
fear  and  helpless  expectancy :  he  knew  that 
if  any  one  struck  him  now,  he  would  no 
longer  be  in  a  position  to  fix  his  sharp  teeth 
in  the  body  of  the  offender  :  his  unappeasable 
malice  had  been  taken  from  him.  And 
when  they  all  began  to  vie  in  caressing  him, 
he  for  a  long  time  could  not  help  trembling  at 
each  touch  of  the  caressing  hand,  and  the 
unwonted  fondling  hurt  him  as  though  it  had 
been  a  blow. 


Ill 


ALL  Snapper's  doggy  nature  expanded.  He 
had  now  a  name,  at  the  sound  of  which  he 
rushed  headlong  from  the  green  depths  of  the 
garden  ;  he  belonged  to  people,  and  could  serve 
them.  What  more  did  a  dog  need  to  make 
him  happy  ! 

Being  accustomed  to  the  moderation  in- 
duced by  years  of  a  vagrant,  hungry  life,  he 
ate  but  little,  but  that  little  changed  him  out 
of  recognition.  His  long  coat,  which  formerly 
had  hung  in  foxy  dry  tufts  on  his  back  and 
on  his  belly,  which  had  been  covered  eter- 
nally with  dried  mud,  now  became  clean, 
and  grew  black,  and  became  as  glossy  as 
velvet.  And  when  he,  having  nothing  better 
to  do,  would  run  to  the  gates  and  stand  on 
the  threshold,  looking  up  and  down  the  street 
with  a  dignified  air,  no  one  ever  took  it  into 
his  head  to  tease  him  or  throw  stones  at 
him. 

But  such  pride  and  independence  he  could 
enjoy  only  to  himself.  Fear  had  not  as  yet 

57 


58  SNAPPER 

been  wholly  evaporated  from  his  heart  by 
the  fire  of  caresses,  and  so  every  time  people 
appeared,  or  approached  him,  he  hid  himself 
expecting  a  beating.  And  still  for  a  long 
time  every  caress  came  to  him  as  a  surprise, 
and  a  wonder,  which  he  could  neither  under- 
stand, nor  respond  to.  He  did  not  know  how 
to  receive  caresses.  Other  dogs  could  stand 
and  walk  about  on  their  hind  legs  and  even 
smile,  and  thus  express  their  feelings,  but  he 
did  not  know  how. 

The  one  only  thing  that  Snapper  was  able 
to  do  was  to  roll  on  his  back,  shut  his  eyes,  and 
whimper  gently.  But  this  was  insufficient, 
it  could  not  express  his  delight,  his  thankful- 
ness and  love.  By  a  sudden  inspiration, 
however,  Snapper  began  to  do  something, 
which  maybe  he  had  seen  done  by  other 
dogs,  but  had  long  since  forgotten.  He 
turned  absurd  somersaults,  leapt  awkwardly, 
and  ran  after  his  tail ;  and  his  body,  which 
had  been  always  so  supple  and  active,  became 
stiff,  ridiculous,  and  pitiful. 

'  Mamma  !  children  !  look,  Snapper  is 
performing/  cried  Lelya,  and  choking  with 
laughter,  said  :  '  Once  more,  Snapper,  once 
more.  That's  right !  ' 

And  they  gathered  together  and  laughed, 
and  Snapper  kept  on  twisting  round,  and  turn- 
ing somersaults  and  falling,  and  no  one  saw 


SNAPPER  59 

the  strange  entreating  look  in  his  eyes.  And 
as  formerly  they  used  to  howl  and  shout  at 
the  dog  to  see  his  despairing  fear,  so  now  they 
caressed  him  on  purpose  to  excite  in  him  an 
ebullition  of  love,  so  infinitely  laughable  in  its 
awkward,  absurd  manifestations.  Hardly  an 
hour  passed  but  some  one  of  the  half-grown- 
ups or  the  children  would  cry  : 

'  Now  then,  Snapper  dear,  perform  !  ' 
And  Snapper  would  twist  about,  turn 
somersaults,  and  fall,  amid  merry,  irrepres- 
sible laughter.  They  praised  him  to  his  face 
and  behind  his  back,  and  lamented  only  one 
thing,  viz.,  that  he  would  not  show  off  his 
tricks  before  strangers,  who  came  to  visit, 
but  would  run  away  into  the  garden,  or  hide 
himself  under  the  verandah. 

Gradually  Snapper  became  accustomed  to 
not  being  obliged  to  trouble  himself  about  his 
food,  since  at  the  appointed  hour  the  cook 
would  give  him  scraps  and  bones,  while  he 
confidently  and  quietly  lay  in  his  place  under 
the  verandah,  and  even  sought  and  asked  for 
caresses.  And  he  grew  heavy  :  he  seldom 
ran  away  from  the  bungalow,  and  when  the 
little  children  called  him  to  go  with  them  to 
the  forest,  he  would  wag  an  evasive  tail,  and 
disappear  unseen.  But  all  the  same  at  night 
his  bark  would  be  loud  and  wakeful  as  ever. 


IV 


AUTUMN  began  to  glow  with  yellow  fires,  and 
the  sky  to  weep  with  heavy  rain,  and  the 
bungalows  became  quickly  empty,  and  silent, 
as  though  the  incessant  rain  and  wind  had 
extinguished  them  one  by  one,  like  candles. 

'  What  are  we  to  do  with  Snapper  ?  '  asked 
Lelya,  with  hesitation.  She  was  sitting  em- 
bracing her  knees  and  looking  sorrowfully  out 
of  the  window,  down  which  were  rolling  glis- 
tening drops  of  rain. 

'  What  a  position  you're  in,  Lelya  ;  that's 
not  the  way  to  sit !  '  said  her  mother,  and 
added  :  '  Snapper  must  be  left  behind,  poor 
fellow.' 

'  That's — a — pity,'  said  Lelya  lingeringly. 

'  But  what  can  one  do  ?  We  have  no 
court-yard  at  home,  and  we  can't  keep  him  in 
the  house,  that  you  must  very  well  under- 
stand.' 

'  It's — a — pity,'  repeated  Lelya,  ready  to 
cry.  Her  dark  brows  were  raised,  like  a 

60 


SNAPPER  61 

swallow's  wings,  and  her  pretty  little  nose 
puckered  piteously,  when  her  mother  said  : 

'  The  Dogayevs  offered  me  a  puppy  some 
time  ago.  They  say  that  it  is  very  well  bred, 
and  ready  trained.  Do  you  see  ?  But  this 
is  only  a  yard-dog/ 

'  A — pity,'  repeated  Lelya,  but  she  did  not 
cry. 

Once  more  strangers  arrived,  and  wagons 
creaked,  and  the  floors  groaned  beneath 
heavy  footsteps,  but  there  was  less  talk,  and 
no  laughter  was  heard  at  all.  Terrified  by 
the  strange  people,  and  dimly  prescient  of 
calamity,  Snapper  fled  to  the  extreme  end 
of  the  garden,  and  thence  through  the  thin- 
ning bushes  gazed  unceasingly  at  that  corner 
of  the  verandah  which  was  open  to  his  view, 
and  at  the  figures  in  red  shirts  which  were 
moving  about  on  it. 

'  You  there !  my  poor  Snapper,'  said 
Lelya  as  she  came  out.  She  was  already 
dressed  for  the  journey  in  the  same  cinnamon 
skirt,  out  of  which  Snapper  had  torn  a  piece, 
and  a  black  jacket.  '  Come  along  !  ' 

And  they  went  out  into  the  road.  The 
rain  kept  coming  and  going,  and  the  whole 
expanse  between  the  blackened  earth  and  the 
sky  was  full  of  clubbed,  swiftly-moving 
clouds.  From  below  it  could  be  seen  how 
heavy  they  were,  impenetrable  to  the  light 


62  SNAPPER 

on  account  of  the  water  which  saturated 
them,  and  how  weary  the  sun  must  be  behind 
that  solid  wall. 

To  the  left  of  the  road  stretched  the  dark- 
ened stubble  field,  and  only  on  the  near  hum- 
mocky  horizon  short  uneven  trees  and  shrubs 
appeared  in  lonesome  patches.  In  front,  not 
far  off,  was  the  barrier,  and  near  it  a  wine- 
shop with  red  iron  roof,  and  by  it  was  a  group 
of  people  teasing  the  village  idiot  Ilyusha. 

'  Give  us  a  ha'penny,'  snuffled  the  idiot 
in  a  drawling  voice,  and  evil,  jeering  voices 
replied  all  together  : 

'  Will  you  chop  up  some  wood  ?  ' 

Ilyusha  reviled  foully  and  cynically,  and 
the  others  laughed  without  mirth.  A  sun- 
ray  broke  through,  yellow  and  anaemic,  as 
though  the  sun  were  hopelessly  sick  ;  and  the 
foggy  Autumn  distance  became  wider,  and 
more  melancholy. 

'  I'm  sorry,  Snapper  !  '  Lelya  gently  let  fall 
the  words,  and  went  back  without  looking 
round.  It  was  not  till  she  reached  the  sta- 
tion that  she  remembered  that  she  had  not 
said  good-bye  to  Snapper. 

Snapper  long  followed  the  track  of  the  peo- 
ple as  they  went  away,  he  ran  as  far  as  the 
station,  and  wet  through  and  muddy,  re- 
turned to  the  bungalow.  There  he  performed 


SNAPPER  63 

one  more  new  trick,  which  no  one,  however, 
was  there  to  see.  For  the  first  time  he  went 
on  to  the  verandah,  stood  on  his  hind  legs, 
looked  in  at  the  glass  door,  and  even  scratched 
at  it.  But  the  rooms  were  all  empty,  and  no 
one  answered  him. 

A  violent  rain  poured  down,  and  on  all 
sides  the  darkness  of  the  long  Autumn  night 
began  to  close  in.  Quickly  and  dully  it 
filled  the  empty  bungalow :  noiselessly  it 
crept  out  from  the  shrubs,  and  in  company 
with  the  rain,  poured  down  from  the  uninvit- 
ing sky.  On  the  verandah,  from  which  the 
awning  had  been  taken  away,  and  which  for 
that  reason  looked  like  a  broad  and  unknown 
waste,  the  light  had  long  been  in  conflict  with 
the  darkness,  and  mournfully  illumined  the 
marks  of  dirty  feet ;  but  soon  it  gave  in. 

Night  had  come  on. 

When  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  that 
the  night  was  upon  him,  the  dog  began  to 
howl  in  loud  complaint.  With  a  note  reson- 
ant, and  sharp  as  despair,  that  howl  broke 
into  the  monotonous,  sullenly  persistent  sound 
of  the  rain,  rending  the  darkness,  and  then 
dying  down  was  carried  over  the  dark  naked 
fields. 

The  dog  howled — regularly,  persistently, 
desperately,  soberly — and  to  any  one  who 
heard  that  howling  it  seemed  as  though  the 


64  SNAPPER 

impenetrable  dark  night  itself  were  groaning 
and  longing  for  the  light,  and  he  would  wish 
himself  with  his  wife  by  his  warm  fireside. 
The  dog  howled. 


THE    LIE 

'  You  lie  !     I  know  you  lie  !  ' 

'  What  are  you  shouting  for  ?  Is  it  neces- 
sary that  every  one  should  hear  us  ?  ' 

And  here  again  she  lied,  for  I  had  not 
shouted,  but  spoken  in  the  quietest  voice, 
holding  her  hand  and  speaking  quite  gently 
while  that  venomous  word  '  lie  '  hissed  like  a 
little  serpent. 

'  I  love  you,'  she  continued, '  and  you  ought 
to  believe  me.  Does  not  this  convince  you  ?  ' 

And  she  kissed  me.  But  when  I  was  about 
to  take  hold  of  her  hand  and  press  it — she 
was  already  gone.  She  left  the  semi-dark 
corridor,  and  I  followed  her  once  more  to  the 
place  where  a  gay  party  was  just  coming  to  an 
end.  How  did  I  know  where  it  was  ?  She 
had  told  me  that  I  might  go  there,  and  I  went 
there  and  watched  the  dancing  all  the  night 
through.  No  one  came  near  me,  or  spoke  to 
me,  I  was  a  stranger  to  all,  and  sat  in  the 
corner  near  the  band.  Pointed  straight  at  me 
was  the  mouth  of  a  great  brass  instrument, 

I-A.  65  5 


66  THE  LIE 

through  which  some  one  hidden  in  the  depths 
of  it  kept  bellowing,  and  every  minute  or  so 
would  give  a  rude  staccato  laugh  :  '  Ho  !  ho  ! 
ho!' 

From  time  to  time  a  scented  white  cloud 
would  come  close  to  me.  It  was  she.  I  knew 
not  how  she  managed  to  caress  me  without 
being  observed,  but  for  one  short  little  second 
her  shoulder  would  press  mine,  and  for  one 
short  little  second  I  would  lower  my  eyes  and 
see  a  white  neck  in  the  opening  of  a  white 
dress.  And  when  I  raised  my  eyes  I  saw  a 
profile  as  white,  severe,  and  truthful  as  that 
of  a  pensive  angel  on  the  tomb  of  the  long- 
forgotten  dead.  And  I  saw  her  eyes.  They 
were  large,  greedy  of  the  light,  beautiful,  and 
calm.  From  their  blue- white  setting  the 
pupils  shone  black,  and  the  more  I  looked  at 
them  the  blacker  they  seemed,  and  the  more 
unfathomable  their  depths.  Maybe  I  looked 
at  them  for  so  short  a  time  that  my  heart 
failed  to  make  the  slightest  impression,  but 
certainly  never  did  I  understand  so  profoundly 
and  terribly  the  meaning  of  Infinity,  nor 
ever  realised  it  with  such  force.  I  felt  in 
fear  and  pain  that  my  very  life  was  passing 
out  in  a  slender  ray  into  her  eyes,  until  I  be- 
came a  stranger  to  myself — desolated,  speech- 
less, almost  dead.  Then  she  would  leave 
me,  taking  my  life  with  her,  and  dance  again 


THE  LIE  67 

with  a  certain  tall,  haughty,  but  handsome 
partner  of  hers.  I  studied  his  every  character- 
istic— the  shape  of  his  shoes,  the  width  of  his 
rather  high  shoulders,  the  rhythmic  sway  of 
one  of  his  locks,  which  separated  itself  from 
the  rest,  while  with  his  indifferent,  unseeing 
glance  he,  as  it  were,  crushed  me  against  the 
wall,  and  I  felt  myself  as  flat  and  lifeless  to 
look  at  as  the  wall  itself. 

When  they  began  to  extinguish  the  lights, 
I  went  up  to  her  and  said  : 

'  It  is  time  to  go.     I  will  accompany  you.' 

But  she  expressed  surprise. 

'  But  certainly  I  am  going  with  him,'  and 
she  pointed  to  the  tall,  handsome  man,  who 
was  not  looking  at  us.  She  led  me  out  into 
an  empty  room  and  kissed  me. 

'  You  lie,'  I  said  very  softly. 

'  We  shall  meet  again  to-morrow.  You 
must  come/  was  her  answer. 

When  I  drove  home,  the  green  frosty  dawn 
was  looking  out  from  behind  the  high  roofs. 
In  the  whole  street  there  were  only  we  two, 
the  sledge-driver  and  I.  He  sat  with  bent 
head  and  wrapped-up  face,  and  I  sat  behind 
him  wrapped  up  to  the  very  eyes.  The 
sledge-driver  had  his  thoughts,  and  I  had 
mine,  and  there  behind  the  thick  walls  thou- 
sands of  people  were  sleeping,  and  they  had 
their  own  dreams  and  thoughts.  I  thought 


68  THE  LIE 

of  her,  and  of  how  she  lied.  I  thought  of 
death,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  those  dimly- 
lightened  walls  had  already  looked  upon  my 
death,  and  that  was  why  they  were  so  cold 
and  upright.  I  know  not  what  the  thoughts 
of  the  sledge-driver  may  have  been,  neither 
do  I  know  of  what  those  hidden  by  the  walls 
were  dreaming.  But  then,  neither  did  they 
know  my  thoughts  and  reveries. 

And  so  we  drove  on  through  the  long  and 
straight  streets,  and  the  dawn  rose  from  be- 
hind the  roofs,  and  all  around  was  motionless 
and  white.  A  cold,  scented  cloud  came  close 
to  me,  and  straight  into  my  ear  some  one 
unseen  laughed  : 

'Ho!    ho!    ho!' 


II 

SHE  had  lied.  She  did  not  come,  and  I 
waited  for  her  in  vain.  The  grey,  uniform, 
frozen  semi-darkness  descended  from  the 
lightless  sky,  and  I  was  not  conscious  of 
when  the  twilight  passed  into  evening,  and 
when  the  evening  passed  into  night — to  me 
it  was  all  one  long  night.  I  kept  walking 
backwards  and  forwards  with  the  same  even, 
measured  steps  of  hope  deferred.  I  did  not 
come  close  up  to  the  tall  house,  where  my 
beloved  dwelt,  nor  to  its  glazed  door  which 
shone  yellow  at  the  end  of  the  iron  covered- 
way,  but  I  walked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street  with  the  same  measured  strides — 
backwards  and  forwards,  backwards  and 
forwards.  In  going  forward  I  did  not  take 
my  eye  off  the  glazed  door,  and  when  I  turned 
back  I  stopped  frequently  and  turned  my 
head  round,  and  then  the  snow  pricked  my 
face  with  its  sharp  needles.  And  so  long 
were  those  sharp  cold  needles  that  they  pene- 
trated to  my  very  heart,  and  pierced  it  with 
grief  and  anger  at  my  useless  waiting.  The 

69 


70  THE  LIE 

cold  wind  blew  uninterruptedly  from  the 
bright  north  to  the  dark  south,  and  whistled 
playfully  on  the  icy  roofs,  and  rebounding 
cut  my  face  with  sharp  little  snowflakes, 
and  softly  tapped  the  glasses  of  the  empty 
lanterns,  in  which  the  lonely  yellow  flame, 
shivering  with  cold,  bent  to  the  draught. 
And  I  felt  sorry  for  the  lonely  flame  which 
lived  only  by  night,  and  I  thought  to  myself, 
when  I  go  away  all  life  will  end  in  this  street, 
and  only  the  snowflakes  will  fly  through  the 
empty  space ;  but  still  the  yellow  flame  will 
continue  to  shiver  and  bend  in  loneliness 
and  cold. 

I  waited  for  her,  but  she  came  not.  And 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  lonely  flame  and  I 
were  like  one  another,  only  that  my  lamp 
was  not  empty,  for  in  that  void,  which  I  kept 
measuring  with  my  strides,  there  did  some- 
times appear  people.  They  grew  up  un- 
heard behind  my  back,  big  and  dark ;  they 
passed  me,  and  like  ghosts  suddenly  disap- 
peared round  the  corner  of  the  white  building. 
Then  again  they  would  come  out  from  round 
the  corner,  come  up  alongside  of  me  and 
then  gradually  melt  away  in  the  great 
distance,  obscured  by  the  silently  falling 
snow.  Muffled  up,  formless,  silent,  they 
were  so  like  to  one  another  and  to  my- 
self that  it  seemed  as  if  scores  of  people 


THE  LIE  71 

were  walking  backwards  and  forwards  and 
waiting,  as  I  was,  shivering  and  silent,  and 
were  thinking  their  own  enigmatic  sad 
thoughts-. 

I  waited  for  her,  but  she  came  not.  I 
know  not  why  I  did  not  cry  out  and  weep 
for  pain.  I  know  not  why  I  laughed  and 
was  glad,  and  crooked  my  fingers  like  claws, 
as  though  I  held  in  them  that  little  venomous 
thing  which  kept  hissing  like  a  snake  :  a 
lie  !  It  wriggled  in  my  hands,  and  bit  my 
heart,  and  my  head  reeled  with  its  poison. 
Everything  was  a  lie  !  The  boundary  line 
between  the  future  and  the  present,  the 
present  and  the  past,  vanished.  The  boun- 
dary line  between  the  time  when  I  did  not 
yet  exist,  and  the  time  when  I  began  to  be, 
vanished,  and  I  thought  that  I  must  have 
always  been  alive,  or  else  never  have  lived 
at  all.  And  always,  before  I  lived  and  when 
I  began  to  live,  she  had  ruled  over  me,  and 
I  felt  it  strange  that  she  should  have  a  name 
and  a  body,  and  that  her  existence  should 
have  a  beginning  and  an  end.  She  had  no 
name,  she  was  always  the  one  that  lies, 
that  makes  eternally  to  wait,  and  never 
comes.  And  I  knew  not  why,  but  I  laughed, 
and  the  sharp  needles  pierced  my  heart,  and 
right  into  my  ear  some  one  unseen  laughed : 

'  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! ' 


72  THE  LIE 

Opening  my  eyes  I  looked  at  the  lighted 
windows  of  the  lofty  house,  and  they  quietly 
said  to  me  in  their  blue  and  red  language : 

'  Thou  art  deceived  by  her.  At  this  very 
moment  whilst  thou  art  wandering,  waiting, 
and  suffering,  she,  all  bright,  lovely,  and 
treacherous,  is  there,  listening  to  the  whispers 
of  that  tall,  handsome  man,  who  despises 
thee.  If  thou  wert  to  break  in  there  and 
kill  her,  thou  wouldst  be  doing  a  good  deed, 
for  thou  wouldst  slay  a  lie/ 

I  gripped  the  knife  I  held  in  my  hand 
tighter,  and  answered  laughingly :  '  Yes, 
I  will  kill  her.' 

But  the  windows  gazed  at  me  mournfully, 
and  added  sadly  :  '  Thou  wilt  never  kill  her. 
Never !  because  the  weapon  thou  holdest  in 
thy  hand  is  as  much  a  lie  as  are  her  kisses.' 

The  silent  shadows  of  my  fellow-watchers 
had  disappeared  long  ago,  and  I  was  left 
alone  in  the  cold  void,  I — and  the  lonely 
tongues  of  fire  shivering  with  cold  and 
despair.  The  clock  in  the  neighbouring 
church-tower  began  to  strike,  and  its  dismal 
metallic  sound  trembled  and  wept,  flying 
away  into  the  void,  and  being  lost  in  the 
maze  of  silently  whirling  snowflakes.  I  began 
to  count  the  strokes,  and  went  into  a  fit  of 
laughter.  The  clock  struck  15  !  The  belfry 
was  old,  and  so,  too,  was  the  clock,  and 


THE  LIE  73 

although  it  indicated  the  right  time,  it 
struck  spasmodically,  sometimes  so  often 
that  the  grey,  ancient  bell-ringer  had  to 
clamber  up  and  stop  the  convulsive  strokes 
of  the  hammer  with  his  hand.  For  whom 
did  those  senilely  tremulous,  melancholy 
sounds,  which  were  embraced  and  throttled 
by  the  frosty  darkness,  tell  a  lie  ?  So 
pitiable  and  inept  was  that  useless  lie. 

With  the  last  lying  sounds  of  the  clock  the 
glazed  door  slammed,  and  a  tall  man  made 
his  way  down  the  steps. 

I  saw  only  his  back,  but  I  recognized  it  as  I 
had  seen  it  only  last  evening,  proud  and 
contemptuous.  I  recognized  his  walk,  and 
it  was  lighter  and  more  confident  than  in 
the  evening  :  thus  had  I  often  left  that  door. 
He  walked,  as  those  do,  whom  the  lying 
lips  of  a  woman  have  just  kissed. 


Ill 

I  THREATENED  and  entreated,  grinding  my 
teeth  : 

'  Tell  me  the  truth  !  ' 

But  with  a  face  cold  as  snow,  while  from 
beneath  her  brows,  lifted  in  surprise,  her  dark, 
inscrutable  eyes  shone  passionless  and  mysteri- 
ous as  ever,  she  assured  me  : 

'  But  I  am  not  lying  to  you.' 

She  knew  that  I  could  not  prove  her  lie, 
and  that  all  my  heavy  massive  structure  of 
torturing  thought  would  crumble  at  one 
word  from  her,  even  one  lying  word.  I 
waited  for  it — and  it  came  forth  from  her 
lips,  sparkling  on  the  surface  with  the  colours 
of  truth,  but  dark  in  its  innermost  depths  : 

'  I  love  thee  !     Am  not  I  all  thine  ?  ' 

We  were  far  from  the  town,  and  the  snow- 
clad  plain  looked  in  at  the  dark  windows. 
Upon  it  was  darkness,  and  around  it  was 
darkness,  gross,  motionless,  silent,  but  the 
plain  shone  with  its  own  latent  coruscation, 
like  the  face  of  a  corpse  in  the  dark.  In  the 
over-heated  room  only  one  candle  was  burn- 

74 


THE  LIE  75 

ing,  and  on  its  reddening  flame  there  appeared 
the  white  reflection  of  the  deathlike  plain. 

'  However  sad  the  truth  may  be,  I  want 
to  know  it.  Maybe  I  shall  die  when  I 
know  it,  but  death  rather  than  ignorance  of 
the  truth.  In  your  kisses  and  embraces  I 
feel  a  lie.  In  your  eyes  I  see  it.  Tell  me  the 
truth  and  I  will  leave  you  for  ever,'  said  I. 

But  she  was  silent.  Her  coldly  searching 
look  penetrated  my  inmost  depths,  and 
drawing  out  my  soul,  regarded  it  with  strange 
curiosity. 

And  I  cried  :   '  Answer,  or  I  will  kill  you  !  ' 

'  Yes,  do  !  '  she  quietly  replied  ;  '  some- 
times life  is  so  wearisome.  But  the  truth  is 
not  to  be  extracted  by  threat.' 

And  then  I  knelt  to  her.  Clasping  her 
hand  I  wept,  and  prayed  for  pity  and  the  truth. 

'  Poor  fellow  ! '  said  she,  putting  her  hand 
on  my  head,  '  poor  fellow  ! ' 

'  Pity  me,'  I  prayed,  '  I  want  so  much  to 
know  the  truth.' 

And  as  I  looked  at  her  pure  forehead,  I 
thought  that  truth  must  be  there  behind 
that  slender  barrier.  And  I  madly  wished 
to  smash  the  skull  to  get  at  the  truth.  There, 
too,  behind  a  white  bosom  beat  a  heart,  and 
I  madly  wished  to  tear  her  bosom  with  my 
nails,  to  see  but  for  once  an  unveiled  human 
heart.  And  the  pointed,  motionless  flame 


76  THE  LIE 

of  the  expiring  candle  burnt  yellow — and  the 
walls  grew  dark  and  seemed  farther  apart — 
and  it  felt  so  sad,  so  lonely,  so  eery. 

'  Poor  fellow  ! '  she  said.     '  Poor  fellow  !  ' 

And  the  yellow  flame  of  the  candle  shivered 
spasmodically,  burnt  low,  and  became  blue. 
Then  it  went  out — and  darkness  enveloped 
us.  I  could  not  see  her  face,  nor  her  eyes, 
for  her  arms  embraced  my  head — and  I 
no  longer  felt  the  lie.  Closing  my  eyes,  I 
neither  thought  nor  lived,  but  only  absorbed 
the  touch  of  her  hands,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
true.  And  in  the  darkness  she  whispered 
in  a  strangely  fearsome  voice : 

'  Put  your  arms  round  me — I'm  afraid.' 

Again  there  was  silence,  and  again  the 
gentle  whisper  fraught  with  fear  ! 

'  You  desire  the  truth — but  do  I  know  it 
myself  ?  And  oh !  don't  I  wish  I  did  ? 
Take  care  of  me  ;  oh  !  I'm  so  frightened  !  * 

I  opened  my  eyes.  The  paling  darkness 
of  the  room  fled  in  fear  from  the  lofty  win- 
dows, and  gathering  near  the  walls  hid  itself 
in  the  corners.  But  through  the  windows 
there  silently  looked  in  a  something  huge, 
deadly-white.  It  seemed  as  though  some 
one's  dead  eyes  were  searching  for  us,  and 
enveloping  us  in  their  icy  gaze.  Presently 
we  pressed  close  together,  while  she  whispered  : 

'  Oh  !  I  am  so  frightened  ! ' 


IV 

I  KILLED  her.  I  killed  her,  and  when  she 
lay  a  flat,  lifeless  heap  by  the  window,  beyond 
which  shone  the  dead-white  plain,  I  put  my 
foot  on  her  corpse,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of 
laughter.  It  was  not  the  laugh  of  a  madman  ; 
oh,  no  !  I  laughed  because  my  bosom  heaved 
lightly  and  evenly,  and  within  it  all  was 
cheerful,  peaceful,  and  void,  and  because 
from  my  heart  had  fallen  the  worm  which 
had  been  gnawing  it.  And  bending  down 
I  looked  into  her  dead  eyes.  Great,  greedy  of 
the  light,  they  remained  open,  and  were  like 
the  eyes  of  a  wax  doll — so  round  and  dull 
were  they,  as  though  covered  with  mica. 
I  was  able  to  touch  them  with  my  fingers, 
open  and  shut  them,  and  I  was  not  afraid, 
because  in  those  black,  inscrutable  pupils 
there  lived  no  longer  that  demon  of  lying 
and  doubt,  which  so  long,  so  greedily,  had 
sucked  my  blood. 

When  they  arrested  me  I  laughed.  And 
this  seemed  terrible  and  wild  to  those  who 
seized  me.  Some  of  them  turned  away  from 

77 


78  THE  LIE 

me  in  disgust,  and  went  aside ;  others  ad- 
vanced threateningly  straight  towards  me, 
with  condemnation  on  their  lips,  but  when 
my  bright,  cheerful  glance  met  their  eyes, 
their  faces  blanched,  and  their  feet  became 
rooted  to  the  ground. 

'  Mad ! '  they  said,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  they  found  comfort  in  the  word,  because 
it  helped  to  solve  the  enigma  of  how  I  could 
love  and  yet  kill  the  beloved — and  laugh. 
One  of  them  only,  a  man  of  full  habit  and 
sanguine  temperament,  called  me  by  another 
name,  which  I  felt  as  a  blow,  and  which 
extinguished  the  light  in  my  eyes. 

'  Poor  man ! '  said  he  in  compassion, 
although  devoid  of  anger — for  he  was  stout 
and  cheerful.  '  Poor  fellow  ! ' 

'  Don't ! '  cried  I.     '  Don't  call  me  that !  ' 

I  know  not  why  I  threw  myself  upon  him. 
Indeed,  I  had  no  desire  to  kill  him,  or  even 
to  touch  him ;  but  all  these  cowed  people 
who  looked  on  me  as  a  madman  and  a  villain, 
were  all  the  more  frightened,  and  cried  out 
so  that  it  seemed  to  me  again  quite  ludicrous. 

When  they  were  leading  me  out  of  the  room 
where  the  corpse  lay,  I  repeated  loudly  and 
persistently,  looking  at  the  stout,  cheerful 
man  : 

'  I  am  happy,  happy  !  ' 

And  that  was  the  truth. 


ONCE,  when  I  was  a  child,  I  saw  in  a  mena- 
gerie a  panther,  which  struck  my  imagina- 
tion and  for  long  held  my  thoughts  captive. 
It  was  not  like  the  other  wild  beasts,  which 
dozed  without  thought  or  angrily  gazed  at 
the  visitors.  It  walked  from  corner  to  corner, 
in  one  and  the  same  line,  with  mathematical 
precision,  each  time  turning  on  exactly  the 
same  spot,  each  time  grazing  with  its  tawny 
side  one  and  the  same  metal  bar  of  the  cage. 
Its  sharp,  ravenous  head  was  bent  down,  and 
its  eyes  looked  straight  before  it,  never  once 
turning  aside.  For  whole  days  a  noisily 
chattering  crowd  trooped  before  its  cage,  but 
it  kept  up  its  tramp,  and  never  once  turned 
an  eye  on  the  spectators.  A  few  of  the  crowd 
laughed,  but  the  majority  looked  seriously, 
even  sadly,  at  that  living  picture  of  heavy, 
hopeless  brooding,  and  went  away  with  a 
sigh.  And  as  they  retired,  they  cast  once 
more  round  at  her  a  doubting,  inquiring 
glance  and  sighed — as  though  there  was 

79 


8o  THE  LIE 

something  in  common  between  their  own 
lot,  free  as  they  were,  and  that  of  the  un- 
happy, eager  wild  beast.  And  when  later 
on  I  was  grown  up,  and  people,  or  books, 
spoke  to  me  of  eternity,  I  called  to  mind  the 
panther,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  knew 
eternity  and  its  pains. 

Such  a  panther  did  I  become  in  my  stone 
cage.  I  walked  and  thought.  I  walked 
in  one  line  right  across  my  cage  from  corner 
to  corner,  and  along  one  short  line  travelled 
my  thoughts,  so  heavy  that  it  seemed  that 
my  shoulders  carried  not  a  head,  but  a  whole 
world.  But  it  consisted  of  but  one  word, 
but  what  an  immense,  what  a  torturing, 
what  an  ominous  word  it  was. 

'  Lie  !  '  that  was  the  word. 

Once  more  it  crept  forth  hissing  from  all 
the  corners,  and  twined  itself  about  my  soul ; 
but  it  had  ceased  to  be  a  little  snake,  it  had 
developed  into  a  great,  glittering,  fierce  ser- 
pent. It  bit  me,  and  stifled  me  in  its  iron 
coils,  and  when  I  began  to  cry  out  with  pain, 
as  though  my  whole  bosom  were  swarming 
with  reptiles,  I  could  only  utter  that  abomin- 
able, hissing,  serpent-like  sound  :  '  Lie  !  ' 

And  as  I  walked,  and  thought,  the  grey 
level  asphalt  of  the  floor  changed  before  my 
eyes  into  a  grey,  transparent  abyss.  My 
feet  ceased  to  feel .  the  touch  of  the  floor,  and 


THE  LIE  81 

I  seemed  to  be  soaring  at  a  limitless  height 
above  the  fog  and  mist.  And  when  my 
bosom  gave  forth  its  hissing  groan,  thence — 
from  below — from  under  that  rarifying,  but 
still  impenetrable  shroud,  there  slowly  issued 
a  terrible  echo.  So  slow  and  dull  was  it,  as 
though  it  were  passing  through  a  thousand 
years.  And  every  now  and  then,  as  the  fog 
lifted,  the  sound  became  less  loud,  and  I 
understood  that  there — below — it  was  still 
whistling  like  a  wind,  that  tears  down  the 
trees,  while  it  reached  my  ears  in  a  short, 
ominous  whisper  : 

'  Lie  !  ' 

This  mean  whisper  worked  me  up  into  a 
rage,  and  I  stamped  on  the  floor  and  cried  : 

'  There  is  no  lie  !     I  killed  the  lie.' 

Then  I  purposely  turned  aside,  for  I  knew 
what  it  would  reply.  And  it  did  reply  slowly 
from  the  depths  of  the  bottomless  abyss  : 

'  Lie  !  ' 

The  fact  is,  as  you  perceive,  that  I  had  made 
a  grievous  mistake.  I  had  killed  the  woman, 
but  made  the  lie  immortal.  Kill  not  a 
woman  till  you  have,  by  prayer,  by  fire,  and 
torture,  torn  from  her  soul  the  truth  ! 

So  thought  I,  and  continued  my  endless 
tramp  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  cell. 


L..V. 


VI 


DARK  and  terrible  is  the  place  to  which  she 
had  carried  the  truth,  and  the  lie — and  I  am 
going  thither.  At  the  very  throne  of  Satan 
I  shall  overtake  her,  and  falling  on  my  knees 
will  weep  ;  and  cry  : 

'  Tell  me  the  truth  !  ' 

But  God  !  This  is  also  a  lie.  There,  there 
is  darkness,  there  is  the  void  of  ages  and  of 
infinity,  and  there  she  is  not — she  is  nowhere. 
But  the  lie  remains,  it  is  immortal.  I  feel  it 
in  every  atom  of  the  air,  and  when  I  breathe, 
it  enters  my  bosom  with  a  hissing,  and  then 
rends  it — yes,  rends  ! 

Oh  !  what  madness  it  is — to  be  man  and  to 
seek  the  truth  !  What  pain  ! 

Help!    Help! 


82 


AN  ORIGINAL 

A  MOMENT  of  silence  had  fallen  on  the  com- 
pany, and  amid  the  clatter  of  knives  on  plates, 
and  the  confused  talk  at  distant  tables,  the 
frou-frou  of  a  dress,  and  the  creaking  of  the 
floor  under  the  brisk  steps  of  the  waiters, 
some  one's  quiet,  meek  voice  was  heard : 

'  But  I  do  love  negresses.' 

Anton  Ivanovich  coughed  over  himself  the 
vodka  he  was  in  the  act  of  swallowing,  and  a 
waiter,  who  was  collecting  the  plates,  cast  a 
glance  of  ^discriminate  curiosity  from  under 
his  brows.  All  turned  with  surprise  to  the 
speaker,  and  then  for  the  first  time  took 
notice  of  the  irregular  little  face  with  its  red 
moustache,  the  ends  of  which  were  wet  with 
vodka  and  soup,  of  the  two  dull,  colourless 
little  eyes,  and  of  the  carefully  brushed  head 
of  Semyon  Vasilyevich  Kotel'nikov.  For  five 
years  they  had  been  in  the  same  service  as 
Kotel'nikov,  every  day  they  had  said  '  How 
do  you  do  ?  '  and  '  Good-bye  '  to  him,  and 

83 


84  AN  ORIGINAL 

talked  to  him  about  something  or  other ;  on 
the  20th  of  every  month,  after  receiving  their 
stipends,  they  had  dined  at  the  same  restaur- 
ant as  Kotel'nikov,  as  they  were  doing  to- 
day ;  and  now  for  the  first  time  they  were 
really  conscious  of  his  presence.  They  per- 
ceived him,  and  were  astonished.  It  seemed 
that  Semyon  Vasilyevich  was  not  so  bad 
looking  after  all,  if  you  did  not  count  the 
moustache,  and  the  freckles  which  were  like 
splashes  of  mud  from  a  rubber  tyre,  that  he 
was  decently  well  dressed,  and  his  tall  white 
collar,  though  a  paper  one,  was  at  all  events 
clean. 

Anton  Ivanovich,  head  of  the  office,  cough- 
ing and  still  red  with  the  exertion,  looked  at 
the  confused  Semyon  Vasilyevich  attentively, 
with  curiosity  in  his  prominent  eyes,  and 
still  choking,  asked  with  emphasis  : 

'  So  you,  Semyon,  ah  ! — I  beg  your  pardon, 
I  forget/ 

'  Semyon  Vasilyevich/  Kotel'nikov  re- 
minded him,  pronouncing  it,  not  '  Vasilich/ 
but  fully  '  Vasilyevich  ' ;  and  this  pronuncia- 
tion was  pleasing  to  all  as  expressive  of  a 
feeling  of  worth  and  self-respect. 

'  So  you,  Semyon  Vasilyevich — love  ne- 
gresses  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  I  do,  indeed/ 

And  his  voice,  although  rather  weak,  and, 


AN   ORIGINAL  85 

so  to  speak,  somewhat  wrinkled  like  a  shriv- 
elled turnip,  was  nevertheless  pleasant.  An- 
ton Ivanovich  pursed  up  his  lower  lip  so  that 
his  grey  moustache  pressed  against  the  tip  of 
his  red  pitted  nose,  took  in  all  the  officials 
with  his  rounded  eyes,  and  after  an  unavoid- 
able pause  emitted  a  fat  unctuous  laugh. 

'  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  He  loves  negresses  !  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  ' 

And  all  laughed  in  a  friendly  manner,  even 
the  stout  dour  Polzikov,  who  as  a  rule  knew 
not  how  to  laugh,  gave  a  sickly  neigh  :  '  Hee, 
hee !  hee  !  ' 

Semyon  Vasilyevich  laughed  also,  with  a 
low  staccato  laugh,  like  a  parched  pea ;  he 
blushed  with  pleasure,  but  at  the  same  time 
was  rather  afraid  that  some  unpleasantness 
might  arise. 

'  Are  you  really  serious  ?  '  asked  Anton 
Ivanovich,  when  he  had  done  laughing. 

'  Perfectly  serious,  sir.  In  them,  those 
black  women,  there  is  something  so  ardent, 
or — so  to  speak — exotic.' 

'  Exotic  ?  ' 

And  once  more  all  spluttered  with  laughter. 
But,  though  they  laughed,  they  considered 
Semyon  Vasilyevich  quite  a  clever  and  edu- 
cated man,  since  he  knew  such  a  rare  word 
as  '  exotic/  Then  they  began  to  argue  with 
warmth  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  one 


86  AN   ORIGINAL 

to  love  a  negress  :  they  were  black  and 
greasy,  they  had  such  impossible  thick  lips, 
and  smelt  too  strong  of  musk. 

'  But  I  love  them/  modestly  persisted 
Semyon  Vasilyevich. 

'  Every  one  to  his  choice/  said  Anton 
Ivanovich  with  decision ;  '  but  I  would 
rather  fall  in  love  with  a  nanny-goat  than 
with  one  of  those  blacks.' 

But  all  were  pleased  that  among  them  in 
the  person  of  one  of  their  own  comrades  there 
was  to  be  found  such  an  original  person,  that 
he  loved  negresses,  and  to  honour  the  occa- 
sion they  ordered  another  half-dozen  of  beer, 
and  began  to  look  with  a  certain  contempt 
on  the  neighbouring  tables,  at  which  there 
sat  no  original  people.  They  began  to  talk 
louder  and  with  more  freedom,  and  Semyon 
Vasilyevich  left  off  striking  matches  for  his 
cigarette,  but  waited  till  the  attendant  offered 
him  a  light.  When  the  beer  was  all  drunk 
up,  and  they  had  ordered  more,  the  stout 
Polzikov  looked  sternly  at  Semyon  Vasilye- 
vich, and  said  reproachfully  : 

'  How  is  it,  Mr.  Kotel'nikov,  that  we  have 
never  got  beyond  the  "  you  "  stage  ?  Do  not 
we  serve  in  the  same  office  ?  We  must  drink 
to  Comradeship,  since  you  are  such  an  ex- 
cellent fellow.' 

'  Certainly,  I  shall  be  delighted/  Semyon 


AN   ORIGINAL  87 

Vasilyevich  consented.  He  beamed  now  with 
delight  that  at  last  they  recognized  and 
appreciated  him,  and  then  again  feared  some- 
how that  they  would  thrash  him ;  at  all 
events  he  kept  his  arm  across  his  breast,  to 
be  ready,  in  case  of  need,  to  protect  his  face 
and  well-brushed  hair.  After  Polzikov  he 
drank  to  Comradeship  with  Troitzky  and 
Novosyolov  and  the  rest,  and  kissed  them  so 
heartily  that  his  lips  became  swollen.  Anton 
Ivanovich  did  not  offer  to  drink  to  Comrade- 
ship, but  politely  remarked  : 

'  When  you  are  passing  our  way,  please 
call.  Although  you  love  negresses,  still  I 
have  daughters,  and  it  will  interest  them  to 
see  you.  So  you  are  really  in  earnest  ?  ' 

Semyon  Vasilyevich  bowed,  and  although 
he  was  a  bit  unsteady  from  the  amount  of 
beer  he  had  drunk,  still  all  remarked  that  his 
manners  were  good.  When  Anton  Ivanovich 
went  away  they  were  still  drinking,  and  after- 
wards went  noisily,  the  whole  company,  on 
to  the  Nevsky,  where  they  gave  way  to  none, 
but  made  all  give  way  to  them.  Semyon 
Vasilyevich  walked  in  the  middle,  arm  in 
arm  with  Troitzky  and  the  sombre  Polzikov, 
and  explained  to  them  : 

'  Nay,  friend  Kostya,  you  don't  understand 
the  matter.  In  negresses  there  is  something 
peculiar,  something,  so  to  speak,  exotic.' 


88  AN  ORIGINAL 

'  And  I  don't  want  to  understand  !  They 
are  black — black — nothing  else.' 

'  Nay,  friend  Kostya,  this  is  a  matter  re- 
quiring taste.  Negresses  are ' 

Until  that  day  Semyon  Vasilyevich  had 
never  even  thought  of  negresses,  and  could 
not  more  exactly  define  what  there  was  so 
desirable  about  them,  so  he  repeated  : 

'  My  friend,  they  are  ardent.' 

'  Now,  then,  Kostya,  what  are  you  quarrel- 
ling about  ?  '  angrily  asked  Troitzky,  as  he 
tripped  up,  and  sploshed  in  a  big  swapped 
galoche.  '  You  are  a  wonderful  fellow  for 
arguing ;  you  never  agree  with  any  one. 
Of  course,  he  knows  why  he  loves  negresses. 
Drive  on,  Senya  ! *  love  away  !  don't  listen 
to  fools  !  You're  a  brave  fellow  ;  we'll  get 
up  a  scandal  before  long.  Lord !  what  a 
devil  he  is  !  ' 

'  Black — black — nothing  more,'  Polzikov 
morosely  insisted. 

'  Nay,  Kostya,  you  don't  understand  the 
matter,'  Semyon  Vasilyevich  mildly  declared  ; 
and  so  they  went  on,  rolling  and  racketting, 
quarrelling,  and  jostling  one  another,  but 
thoroughly  contented. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  whole  Department 
knew  that  the  civil  servant,  Kotel'nikov,  was 
very  fond  of  negresses.  By  the  end  of  a 
1  Short  for  Semyon. — Tr. 


AN    ORIGINAL  89 

month  the  porters  of  the  neighbouring  houses, 
the  petitioners,  and  the  policeman  on  duty 
at  the  corner,  knew  it  too.  The  ladies  who 
worked  the  typewriters  took  to  looking  at 
Semyon  Vasilyevich  from  the  adjoining 
rooms ;  but  he  sat  quiet  and  modest,  and 
still  was  not  sure  whether  he  would  be  praised 
or  thrashed.  Already  he  had  been  at  an 
evening  party  at  Anton  Ivanovich's,  had 
drunk  tea  with  cherry  jam  upon  a  new  damask 
table-cloth,  and  had  explained  that  about 
negresses  there  was  something  exotic.  The 
ladies  looked  confused,  but  the  hostess's 
daughter  Nastenka,  who  had  read  novels, 
blinked  her  shortsighted  eyes,  and,  adjusting 
her  curls,  asked  : 

'  But,  why  ?  ' 

And  all  were  very  much  pleased  ;  but  when 
the  interesting  guest  had  departed  they  spoke 
of  him  with  the  greatest  compassion,  and 
Nastenka  pronounced  him  the  victim  of  a 
pernicious  passion. 

Semyon  Vasilyevich  had  been  taken  with 
Nastenka  ;  but  since  he  loved  only  negresses, 
he  determined  not  to  show  his  liking,  and  was 
cold  and  stand-offish,  though  strictly  polite. 
And  all  the  way  home  he  thought  of  negresses, 
how  black  and  greasy  and  objectionable  they 
were,  and  at  the  thought  of  kissing  one  of 
them,  he  felt  a  sort  of  heart-burn,  and  was 


90  AN   ORIGINAL 

inclined  to  weep  quietly  and  to  write  to  his 
mother  in  the  country  to  come  to  him.  But 
in  the  night  he  overcame  this  attack  of 
pusillanimity,  and  when  he  appeared  at  the 
office  in  the  morning,  by  his  whole  appear- 
ance, by  his  red  tie,  and  by  the  mysterious 
expression  of  his  face,  it  was  abundantly 
clear  that  this  man  was  very  fond  indeed  of 
negr  esses. 

Soon  after  this,  Anton  Ivanovich,  who  took 
an  interest  in  his  fate,  introduced  him  to  a 
theatrical  reporter ;  the  reporter  took  him 
and  treated  him  at  a  cafe-chantant,  where 
he  presented  him  to  the  Manager,  Monsieur 
Jacques  Ducquelau. 

'  Here  is  a  gentleman/  said  the  reporter,  as 
he  brought  forward  the  modestly  bowing 
Semyon  Vasilyevich,  '  here  is  a  gentleman 
who  is  much  enamoured  of  negresses ;  no 
one  but  negresses.  He  is  an  extraordinary 
original.  Give  him  encouragement,  Jacques 
Ivanovich,  for  if  such  people  be  not  encour- 
aged, who  should  be  ?  This,  Jacques  Ivano- 
vich, is  a  public  matter.' 

The  reporter  slapped  Semyon  Vasilyevich 
patronizingly  on  his  narrow  back,  in  its 
creaseless,  tightly-fitting  coat,  and  the  Man- 
ager, a  Frenchman,  with  a  fierce  black  mous- 
tache, cast  his  eyes  up  to  the  sky,  as  though 
looking  for  something  there,  made  a  gesture 


AN  ORIGINAL  91 

of  decision,  and  transfixing  the  still  bowing 
civil  servant  with  his  black  eyes,  said  : 

'  Negresses  !  Excellent !  I  have  here  at 
present  three  beautiful  negresses.' 

Semyon  Vasilyevich  blanched  slightly,  but 
M.  Jacques  was  very  fond  of  his  own  estab- 
lishment, and  took  no  notice.  The  reporter 
requested  !  '  Give  him  a  free  ticket,  Jacques 
Ivanovich  ;  a  season.' 

From  that  evening  Semyon  Vasilyevich  be- 
gan to  pay  court  to  a  negress,  Miss  Korraito, 
the  whites  of  whose  eyes  were  like  saucers, 
with  pupils  no  larger  than  sloes.  And  when 
she  turned  on  all  this  battery  and  made  eyes 
at  him,  his  feet  turned  cold,  and,  as  he  bowed 
hastily,  his  well-pomatumed  head  glistened 
under  the  electric  light,  and  he  thought  with 
grief  of  his  poor  mother  who  lived  in  the 
country. 

Of  Russian  Miss  Korraito  understood  not  a 
word,  but  happily  they  found  plenty  of  willing 
interpreters,  who  took  to  heart  the  interests 
of  the  young  couple,  and  accurately  trans- 
mitted to  Semyon  Vasilyevich  the  gushing 
exclamations  of  the  dusky  fair. 

'  She  says  !  "  She  has  never  seen  such  a 
kind,  handsome  gentleman."  Is  not  that 
right,  Miss  ?  ' 

Miss  Korraito  would  incline  her  head  again 
and  again,  show  her  teeth,  which  were  as 


92  AN  ORIGINAL 

wide  as  the  keys  of  a  piano,  and  roll  her 
saucers  round  on  every  side.  And  Semyon 
Vasilyevich  would  unconsciously  incline  his 
head  too,  and  mutter  : 

'  Tell  her,  please,  that  there  is  something 
exotic  about  negresses.' 

And  all  were  satisfied.  When  Semyon 
Vasilyevich  for  the  first  time  kissed  the  hand 
of  the  negress,  there  assembled  to  see  it,  not 
only  all  the  artistes,  but  many  of  the  specta- 
tors, and  one  in  particular,  an  old  merchant, 
Bogdan  Kornyeich  Seliverstov,  burst  into 
tears  from  tenderness  and  patriotic  feelings. 
Then  they  drank  champagne.  For  two  days 
Semyon  Vasilyevich  suffered  from  a  painful 
palpitation  of  the  heart,  and  did  not  go  to  the 
office.  Several  times  he  began  a  letter, 
1  Dear  Mamma/  but  he  was  too  weak  to 
finish  it.  When  he  went  back  to  the  office 
they  invited  him  to  the  private  room  of  his 
Excellency.  Semyon  Vasilyevich  smoothed 
with  a  comb  his  hair,  which  had  begun  to 
stick  up  during  his  illness,  arranged  the  dark 
ends  of  his  moustache,  so  as  to  speak  more 
clearly,  and  collapsing  with  dread,  went 
in. 

'  Look  here,  is  it  true,  what  they  tell  me, 

that  you '  His  Excellency  hesitated,  '  is 

it  true  that  you  love  negresses  ?  ' 

'  Quite  true,  your  Excellency.' 


AN  ORIGINAL  93 

The  general  concentrated  his  gaze  on  his 
poll,  on  the  smooth  centre  of  which  two  thin 
locks  obstinately  stuck  up  and  trembled,  and 
with  some  surprise,  but  at  the  same  time  with 
approval,  asked : 

'  But  why  do  you  love  them  ?  ' 

'  I  cannot  say,  your  Excellency/  replied 
Semyon  Vasilyevich,  whose  courage  had 
evaporated. 

1  What  do  you  mean  by  "  I  can't  say  "  ? 
Who,  then,  can  say  ?  But  don't  be  embar- 
rassed, my  dear  sir.  I  like  my  subordinates  to 
show  self-reliance  and  initiative  in  general, 
provided,  of  course,  they  do  not  exceed  certain 
legal  bounds.  Tell  me  candidly,  as  though 
you  were  talking  to  your  father,  why  do  you 
love  negresses  ?  ' 

'  There  is  in  them,  your  Excellency,  some- 
thing exotic.' 

That  same  evening  at  the  general's  whist 
table  at  the  English  Club,  his  Excellency, 
when  he  had  dealt  the  cards  with  his  puffy 
white  hands,  remarked  with  assumed  care- 
lessness ! 

'  There's  in  my  office  an  official  who  is 
terribly  enamoured  of  negresses.  An  ordin- 
ary clerk,  if  you  please.' 

The  other  three  generals  were  jealous : 
each  of  them  had  at  his  office  many  officials, 
but  they  were  the  most  ordinary,  colourless, 


94  AN  ORIGINAL 

un-original  people  imaginable,  of  whom  no- 
thing could  be  said. 

The  choleric  Anaton  Petrovich  considered 
long,  scored  only  one  out  of  a  certain  four, 
and  after  the  next  deal  said : 

'  I  too — I  have  a  subordinate,  whose  beard 
is  half  black  and  half  red.' 

But  all  understood  that  the  victory  was 
on  the  side  of  his  Excellency  ;  the  subordinate 
mentioned  was  in  no  respect  responsible  for 
the  fact  that  his  beard  was  half  black  and 
half  red,  and  probably  was  not  even  pleased 
to  have  it  so ;  while  the  official  in  point,  in- 
dependently and  of  his  own  free  will,  loved 
negresses ;  and  such  a  predilection  undoubt- 
edly testified  to  his  originality  of  taste.  But 
his  Excellency,  as  though  he  remarked  no- 
thing, continued  : 

'  He  affirms  that  in  negresses  there  is  some- 
thing exotic' 

The  existence  in  the  Second  Department  of 
an  extraordinary  original  obtained  for  it 
the  most  flattering  popularity  among  official 
circles  in  the  Capital,  and  begat,  as  is  always 
the  case,  many  unsuccessful  and  pitiful  imita- 
tors. A  certain  grey-haired  clerk  in  the  Sixth 
Department,  with  a  large  family,  who  had 
sat  unremarked  at  his  table  for  twenty-eight 
years,  proclaimed  publicly  that  he  could  bark 
like  a  dog ;  and  when  they  only  laughed 


AN  ORIGINAL  95 

at  him,  and  in  all  the  rooms  began  to  bark,  and 
grunt,  and  neigh,  he  was  put  out  of  counten- 
ance, and  took  to  a  fortnight's  drink,  for- 
getting even  to  send  in  a  report  of  sickness, 
as  he  had  always  done  for  the  past  twenty- 
eight  years.  Another  official,  a  youngish 
man,  pretended  to  fall  in  love  with  the  wife 
of  the  Chinese  Ambassador,  and  for  some  time 
attracted  universal  observation,  and  even 
sympathy.  But  experienced  eyes  soon  dis- 
tinguished the  pitiful,  dishonest  pretence 
from  the  true  originality,  and  the  failure  was 
contemptuously  consigned  to  the  abyss  of  his 
former  obscurity.  There  were  other  attempts 
of  the  same  kind,  and  among  the  officials 
in  general  there  was  remarked  this  year  a 
peculiar  elation  of  spirit,  and  a  long-hidden 
desire  for  originality  seized  the  youths  of 
the  service  with  particular  severity,  and  in 
some  cases  even  led  to  tragic  consequences. 
Thus  one  clerk,  of  good  birth,  being  unable 
to  invent  anything  original,  had  the  impu- 
dence to  insult  his  superior,  and  was  promptly 
cashiered.  Even  against  Semyon  Vasilyevich 
there  rose  up  enemies,  who  openly  affirmed 
that  he  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
negresses.  But  as  an  answer  to  them  there 
appeared  in  one  of  the  dailies  an  interview 
in  which^Semyon  Vasilyevich  publicly]  de- 
clared, with  the  permission  of  his  chief,  that 


96  AN  ORIGINAL 

he  loved  negresses  because  there  was  some- 
thing exotic  in  them.  And  the  star  of  Sem- 
yon  Vasilyevich  shone  out  with  a  new,  un- 
dimming  light. 

At  Anton  Ivanovich's  evenings  he  was  now 
the  most  desirable  guest,  and  Nastenka  more 
than  once  wept  bitterly,  so  sorry  was  she  for 
his  ruined  youth  ;  but  he  would  sit  proudly 
at  the  very  middle  of  the  table,  and  feeling 
himself  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  put  on  a 
somewhat  melancholy,  but  at  the  same  time 
exotic  face.  And  to  all,  to  Anton  Ivano- 
vich  himself,  to  his  guests,  and  even  to  the 
deaf  old  woman  who  washed  up  the  dirty 
things  in  the  kitchen,  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
know  that  such  an  original  man  visited  their 
house  quite  without  ceremony.  But  Sem- 
yon  Vasilyevich  went  home  and  wept  upon 
his  pillow,  because  he  loved  Nastenka  ex- 
ceedingly, and  hated  the  damned  Miss  Kor- 
raito  with  all  his  soul. 

Before  Easter  there  was  a  report  that 
Semyon  Vasilyevich  was  going  to  marry  Miss 
Korraito  the  negress,  who  for  that  reason 
would  adopt  Orthodoxy  and  leave  the  ser- 
vice of  M.  Jacques  Ducquelau,  and  that  his 
Excellency  himself  would  give  away  the 
bride.  Fellow  civil-servants,  petitioners,  and 
porters  congratulated  Semyon  Vasilyevich ; 
and  he  bowed,  only  not  so  low  as  before,  but 


AN   ORIGINAL  97 

still  more  politely,  and  his  bald,  polished  head 
glistened  in  the  rays  of  the  spring  sunshine. 

At  the  last  evening  party  given  by  Anton 
Ivanovich  before  the  wedding,  he  was  a  posi- 
tive hero  ;  but  Nastenka  every  half-hour  or 
so  ran  off  to  her  own  room  to  cry,  and  then 
so  powdered  herself,  that  the  powder  was 
scattered  from  her  face  like  flour  from  a  mill- 
stone, and  both  her  neighbours  became  cor- 
respondingly whitened.  At  supper  all  con- 
gratulated the  bridegroom  and  drank'  his 
health  ;  but  Anton  Ivanovich,  as  he  took  his 
leave  of  his  guests,  said  : 

'  There  is  one  interesting  question,  my 
friend,  what  colour  will  your  children  be  ?  ' 

'  Striped/  glumly  said  Polzikov. 

'  How  striped  ?  '  asked  the  guests  in  sur- 
prise. 

'  Why,  in  this  way  :  one  stripe  white,  and 
one  black,  then  another  white,  and  so  on/ 
Polzikov  explained  quite  despondently,  for 
he  was  sorry  with  all  his  heart  for  his  old 
friend. 

'  That's  impossible  !  '  excitedly  exclaimed 
Semyon  Vasilyevich,  who  had  grown  pale  at 
the  thought.  But  Nastenka,  no  longer  able 
to  contain  herself,  burst  out  sobbing  and  ran 
out  of  the  room,  whereby  she  caused  univer- 
sal confusion. 

For  two  years  Semyon  Vasilyevich  was  the 


98  AN   ORIGINAL 

happiest  of  men,  and  all  rejoiced  when  they 
looked  at  him,  and  recalled  his  unusual  fate. 
Once  he  was  invited,  together  with  his  spouse, 
to  his  Excellency's  ;  and  on  the  birth  of  a 
boy  he  received  considerable  assistance  from 
the  reserve  fund,  and  soon  after  that  he  was 
promoted,  out  of  his  turn,  to  be  assistant 
secretary  of  the  fourth  office  of  the  depart- 
ment. And  the  child  was  born  not  striped, 
but  only  slightly  grey,  or  rather  olive-col- 
oured. Everywhere  Semyon  Vasilyevich 
talked  of  his  warm  love  for  his  wife  and  son  ; 
but  he  was  never  in  a  hurry  to  return  home, 
and  when  he  did  get  there  he  was  in  no  hurry 
to  pull  the  bell-handle.  But  when  there 
met  him  on  the  threshold  those  teeth  broad 
as  piano-keys,  and  the  white  saucers  rolled, 
and  when  his  smoothly  brushed  head  was 
pressed  against  something  black,  greasy,  and 
smelling  of  musk,  he  felt  quite  faint  with 
grief,  and  thought  of  those  happy  people  who 
had  white  wives  and  white  children. 

'  Dear  !  '  said  he  submissively,  and  on  the 
insistence  of  the  happy  mother  went  to  look 
at  the  baby.  He  hated  that  thick-lipped  baby 
of  a  greyish  colour  like  asphalt,  but  he  obed- 
iently nursed  it,  meditating  in  the  depths  of 
his  soul  on  the  possibility  of  dropping  it 
suddenly  on  the  floor. 

After  long  vacillation  and  hidden  sighs  he 


AN   ORIGINAL  99 

wrote  to  his  mother  in  the  country  about  his 
marriage,  and  to  his  surprise  received  from 
her  a  most  joyful  answer.  She  also  was 
pleased  at  having  such  an  original  for  her 
son,  and  that  his  Excellency  himself  had 
given  away  the  bride.  But  with  regard  to 
the  colour,  and  other  disabilities  of  the  bride, 
she  expressed  herself  thus  : 

'  Let  her  face  be  that  of  a  sheep,  if  only  her 
soul  be  human.' 

At  the  end  of  two  years  Semyon  Vasilye- 
vich  died  of  typhus  fever.  Before  the  end  he 
sent  for  the  parish  priest,  who  looked  with 
curiosity  on  the  quondam  Miss  Korraito, 
stroked  his  full  beard,  and  said  meaningly, 
'  N  .  .  .  y  .  .  es  !  '  But  it  was  evident  that 
he  respected  Semyon  Vasilyevich  for  his  ori- 
ginality, although  he  looked  on  it  as  sinful. 

When  his  reverence  stooped  down  to  the 
dying  man,  the  latter  gathered  together  the 
remnants  of  his  strength,  and  opened  his 
mouth  wide  to  cry  : 

'  I  hate  that  black  devil !  ' 

But  he  recalled  his  Excellency,  and  the 
help  from  the  reserve  fund,  he  recalled  the 
kindly  Anton  Ivanovich,  and  Nastenka,  and 
looking  at  the  black  weeping  countenance, 
said  softly  : 

'  Father,  I  love  negresses  very  much.  In 
them  there  is  something  exotic.' 


ioo  AN  ORIGINAL 

With  his  last  efforts  he  gave  to  his  emaci- 
ated face  the  semblance  of  a  happy  smile,  and 
expired  with  it  on  his  lips. 

And  the  earth  received  him  without  emo- 
tion, not  asking  whether  he  loved  negresses 
or  no,  brought  his  body  to  corruption,  min- 
gled his  bones  with  those  of  other  dead  peo- 
ple, and  annihilated  every  trace  of  the  white 
paper-collar. 

But  the  Second  Department  long  cherished 
the  memory  of  Semyon  Vasilyevich,  and  when 
the  waiting  petitioners  began  to  grow  weary, 
the  porter  would  take  them  to  his  room  to 
smoke,  and  would  tell  them  tales  of  the 
wonderful  civil-servant  who  was  so  awfully 
fond  of  negresses.  And  all,  narrator  and 
listeners,  were  pleased. 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

OSIP  ABRAMOVICH,  the  barber,  arranged  a 
dirty  sheeting  on  his  customer's  chest,  and 
tucking  it  into  his  collar,  shouted  abruptly  in 
a  sharp  tone,  '  Boy  !  water  !  ' 

The  customer,  examining  his  face  in  the 
glass  with  that  sharpened  intentness  and  in- 
terest which  is  exhibited  only  at  the  barber's, 
observed  that  another  pimple  had  appeared 
on  his  chin,  and  turning  his  eyes  away  in 
dissatisfaction  they  fell  straight  on  a  thin 
little  hand,  which  stretched  out  from  some- 
where at  the  side,  and  put  a  tin  of  hot  water 
down  on  the  ledge  below  the  looking-glass. 
When  he  raised  his  eyes  still  higher,  they 
caught  the  strange  and  distorted  looking  re- 
flection of  the  barber,  and  he  noticed  the  sharp 
threatening  glance  which  he  was  casting  down 
on  the  head  of  some  one,  and  the  silent  move- 
ments of  his  lips,  caused  by  an  inaudible  but 
expressive  whisper.  If  the  master  himself 
was  not  doing  the  shaving  but  one  of  the 
assistants,  Prokopy  or  Mikhailo,  then  the 

101 


102    PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

whisper  would  become  loud,  and  take  the 
form  of  a  vague  threat : 

'  Just  you  wait !  ' 

This  meant  that  the  boy  was  not  quick 
enough  with  the  water,  and  that  punishment 
awaited  him.  '  Serve  'm  right  too/  thought 
the  customer,  bending  his  head  down  side- 
ways, and  contemplating  the  great  moist 
hand  by  the  side  of  his  nose,  three  fingers 
of  which  were  spread  out,  while  the  fore- 
finger and  thumb,  all  sticky  and  smelly,  gently 
touched  cheek  and  chin  as  the  blunt  razor, 
with  a  disagreeable  grating  noise,  took  off  the 
lather,  and  with  it  the  stiff  bristles  of  his 
beard. 

At  this  barber's  shop,  permeated  with  the 
oppressive  smell  of  cheap  scents,  full  of  tire- 
some flies  and  of  dirt,  the  customers  were  not 
very  exacting.  They  consisted  of  hall-porters, 
overseers,  and  sometimes  minor  officials,  or 
workmen,  and  often  coarsely  handsome  but 
suspicious-looking  fellows  with  ruddy  cheeks, 
slender  moustaches,  and  insolent  oleaginous 
eyes. 

Close  by  was  a  quarter  full  of  houses  of 
cheap  debauchery.  They  lorded  it  over  the 
whole  neighbourhood,  and  gave  to  it  a  special 
character  of  something  dirty,  disorderly  and 
disquieting. 

The  boy,  who  was  called  out  to  most  fre- 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    103 

quently,  was  named  Petka,  and  was  the 
smallest  of  all  who  served  in  the  establish- 
ment. The  other  boy  Nikolka  was  his  elder 
by  three  years,  and  would  soon  develop  into 
an  assistant.  Already  when  a  more  than 
ordinarily  humble  customer  looked  in,  and 
the  assistants  in  the  absence  of  the  master 
were  too  lazy  to  work,  they  would  set  Nikolka 
to  cut  his  hair,  and  laugh  when  he  had  to  raise 
himself  on  tiptoe  to  see  the  back  hair  of 
some  fat  dvornik.  Sometimes  the  customer 
would  be  offended  that  his  hair  was  badly 
cut  and  utter  a  loud  complaint,  and  then  the 
assistants  would  scold  Nikolka,  not  seriously, 
but  only  to  satisfy  the  cropped  lout.  But 
such  cases  were  not  of  frequent  occurrence, 
and  Nikolka  gave  himself  the  airs  of  a  man  ; 
he  smoked  cigarettes,  spat  through  his  teeth, 
used  bad  language,  and  even  boasted  to 
Petka  that  he  drank  vodka ;  but  there  he 
probably  lied.  In  company  with  the  assis- 
tants he  would  run  to  the  neighbouring  street 
to  look  on  at  a  coarse  fight,  and  when  he  came 
back  laughing  with  delight,  Osip  Abramovich 
would  give  him  a  couple  of  smacks,  one  on 
each  cheek. 

Petka  was  only  ten  years  old.  He  did  not 
smoke,  or  drink  vodka,  or  swear,  though  he 
knew  plenty  of  bad  words,  and  in  all  these 
respects  he  envied  his  companion.  When 


104    PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

there  were  no  customers,  and  Prokopy,  who 
usually  had  spent  a  sleepless  night  somewhere 
or  other,  and  in  the  daytime  would  drowsily 
stumble  about  and  throw  himself  into  the 
dark  corner  behind  the  partition,  and  Mikhailo 
was  reading  the  Police  News,  and  amongst 
the  accounts  of  thefts  and  robberies  was  look- 
ing out  for  the  name  of  some  regular  customer, 
Petka  and  Nikolka  would  chat  together.  The 
latter  was  kinder  when  the  two  were  alone 
together,  and  used  to  explain  to  the  younger 
the  meaning  of  the  terms  used  to  describe  the 
various  styles  of  hair-cutting. 

Sometimes  they  sat  at  the  window,  by 
the  side  of  a  half-length  figure  of  a  female 
in  wax  with  pink  cheeks,  staring  glass  eyes, 
and  straight  sparse  eyelashes,  and  looked 
out  on  the  boulevard,  where  life  had  been 
stirring  since  the  early  morning.  The  trees 
of  the  boulevard,  powdered  with  dust, 
drooped  motionless  under  the  merciless 
burning  rays  of  the  sun,  and  afforded  an 
equally  grey,  unrefreshing  shade.  On  all 
the  benches  were  seated  men  and  women 
in  dirty,  uncouth  attire,  without  kerchiefs 
or  hats,  just  as  though  they  lived  there  and 
had  no  other  home.  Whether  the  faces 
were  indifferent,  malignant,  or  dissolute, 
on  all  alike  was  impressed  the  stamp  of 
utter  weariness  and  contempt  of  their  sur- 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    105 

roundings.     Ofttimes  a  frowsy  head  would 
nod  helplessly  on  a  shoulder,  and  the  body 
would  try  to  stretch  itself  out  to  sleep  like 
a   third-class   passenger   after   an   unbroken 
journey  of  one  thousand  versts,  but  there 
was  nowhere  to  lie  down.     The  park-keeper, 
in  a  bright  blue  uniform  with  a  cane  in  his 
hand,  walked  up  and  down  the  pathways, 
looking  out  that  no  one  lay  down  on  the 
benches,   or  threw  himself  upon  the  grass, 
which,  though  parched  by  the  sun,  was  still 
so  soft,  so  cool.     The  women,  for  the  most 
part  more  neatly  dressed,  and  even  with  a 
hint  at  fashion,  were  seemingly  all  of  one 
type  of  countenance  and  of  one  age  ;    al- 
though here  and  there  might  be  found  some 
old,  and  others  quite  young,  almost  children. 
All  of  these  talked  with  hoarse,  harsh  voices  ; 
and  scolded,  embracing  the  men  as  simply 
as  though  they  were  alone  on  the  boulevard. 
Sometimes  they  would  take  a  snack  and  a 
drop   of   vodka.     It   might   happen   that   a 
drunken  man  would  beat  an  equally  drunken 
woman.     She  would  fall  down,  and  get  up 
again,  and  fall  down  again,  but  no  one  would 
take  her  part.     Only  the  faces  of  the  crowd 
as  they  gathered  round  the  couple   would 
light  up  with  some  intelligence  and  anima- 
tion, and  wear  a  broader  grin.     But  when 
the    blue-coated    keeper    drew    near,    they 


106    PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

would  listlessly  disperse  to  their  former 
places.  Only  the  ill-used  woman  would 
keep  on  weeping,  uttering  meaningless  oaths, 
with  her  rumpled  hair  covered  with  sand, 
and  her  semi-made  bust  looking  dirty  and 
yellow  in  the  morning  light,  cynically  and 
piteously  exposed.  They  would  put  her 
on  the  bottom  of  a  cab  and  drive  her  off 
with  her  head  hanging  down,  and  swaying, 
as  if  she  were  dead. 

Nikolka  knew  several  of  the  men  and 
women  by  name,  and  told  Petka  nasty 
stories  about  them,  and  laughed  showing 
his  sharp  teeth.  And  Petka  admired  his 
knowledge  and  daring,  and  thought  that 
some  day  he  would  be  like  him.  But  mean- 
while he  wanted  to  be  somewhere  else. 
Wanted  badly  ! 

Petka's  days  dragged  on  wonderfully 
monotonously,  as  like  to  one  another  as  two 
brothers.  Summer  and  winter  alike  he 
saw  the  same  mirrors,  one  of  which  was 
cracked,  and  another  was  contorted  and 
amusing.  On  the  stained  wall  hung  one 
and  the  same  picture,  representing  two  half- 
dressed  women  on  the  sea-shore,  the  only 
difference  being  that  their  pink  bodies 
became  more  spotted  with  fly  dirt,  and 
that  the  black  patch  of  soot  became  larger 
above  the  place  where  the  common  kero- 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    107 

sene  lamp  gleamed  all  the  whole  winter's 
day.  And  morning,  evening,  and  the  whole 
livelong  day,  there  hung  over  Petka  the 
one  and  the  same  abrupt  cry,  '  Boy,  water  ! ' 
and  he  was  always  bringing  it — always. 
There  were  no  holidays.  On  Sundays,  when 
the  windows  of  the  stores  and  shops  ceased 
to  illuminate  the  street,  those  of  the  hair- 
dresser's till  late  at  night  cast  a  bright  sheaf 
of  light  upon  the  pavement,  and  the  passer- 
by might  observe  a  little  thin  figure  huddled 
upon  his  seat  in  the  corner,  and  immersed 
in  something  between  thought  and  a  heavy 
slumber.  Petka  slept  a  great  deal,  but 
still  for  some  reason  or  other  he  was  always 
wanting  to  sleep,  and  it  often  seemed  to 
him  that  all  around  him  was  not  real,  but 
a  very  unpleasant  dream.  Ofttimes  he 
would  spill  the  water,  or  fail  to  hear  the 
sharp  call,  '  Boy,  water  !  '  He  grew  thinner 
and  thinner,  and  unsightly  scabs  came  out 
on  his  closely-cropped  head.  Even  the  not 
too  fastidious  customers  looked  with  aver- 
sion on  this  thin,  freckled  boy,  whose  eyes 
were  always  sleepy,  his  mouth  half-open, 
and  his  hands  and  neck  ingrained  with  dirt. 
Round  his  eyes  and  under  his  nose  faint 
lines  were  forming  as  though  traced  by  a 
sharp  needle,  and  they  made  him  look  like 
an  aged  dwarf. 


io8    PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

Petka  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
happy  or  unhappy,  but  he  did  want  to  go 
to  some  other  place ;  but  where,  or  what, 
that  place  was  he  could  not  have  told  you. 
When  his  mother,  the  cook,  Nadejda,  paid 
him  a  visit,  he  would  eat  listlessly  the  sweets 
she  brought  him.  He  never,  never  com- 
plained, but  only  asked  to  be  taken  away 
from  the  place.  But  he  soon  forgot  his 
request,  and  would  coolly  take  leave  of  his 
mother,  without  asking  when  she  was  com- 
ing again.  And  Nadejda  thought  with 
sorrow  that  she  had  only  one  son — and  that 
one  an  imbecile. 

How  long  he  had  lived  in  this  fashion, 
Petka  did  not  know,  when  suddenly  one 
day  his  mother  came  to  dinner,  had  a  talk 
with  Osip  Abramovich,  and  told  Petka 
that  he  was  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  the  bun- 
galow at  Tzaritzyno,  where  her  master  and 
mistress  were  living.  At  first,  Petka  could 
not  realize  the  good  news,  but  after  a  time 
his  face  broke  out  into  faint  wrinkles  of 
soft  laughter,  and  he  began  to  hasten  his 
mother's  departure.  But  for  decency's 
sake  she  had  to  talk  to  Osip  Abramovich 
about  his  wife's  health,  while  Petka  was 
gently  dragging  her  by  the  hand  and  shov- 
ing her  towards  the  door.  He  had  no  idea 
what  a  bungalow  was  like,  but  he  supposed 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    109 

that  it  must  be  the  very  place  which  he  had 
so  longed  to  go  to.  With  simple  egotism 
he  quite  forgot  Nikolka,  who  was  standing 
there  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  endea- 
vouring to  regard  Nadejda  with  his  usual 
insolence.  But  instead  of  insolence  there 
shone  in  his  eyes  a  profound  grief.  He  had 
no  mother,  and  at  that  moment  he  would 
not  have  objected  to  having  just  such  a 
stout  one  as  Nadejda.  The  fact  was  that 
he  too  had  never  been  at  a  bungalow. 

The  railway  station  with  its  many  voices, 
with  its  bustle  and  the  rumble  of  incoming 
trains,  and  the  whistles  of  the  engines,  some 
thick  and  irate  like  the  voice  of  Osip  Abra- 
movich,  others  thin  and  shrill  like  the  voice 
of  his  sickly  wife,  with  its  hurrying  passengers 
who  kept  coming  and  going  in  a  continuous 
stream,  as  if  there  were  no  end  to  them — 
all  this  presented  itself  for  the  first  time  to 
the  puzzled  gaze  of  Petka,  and  filled  him 
with  a  feeling  of  excitement  and  impatience. 
Like  his  mother,  he  was  afraid  of  being  late, 
though  it  wanted  a  good  half-hour  to  the 
time  of  the  departure  of  the  suburban  train. 
But  when  they  were  once  seated  in  the  car- 
riage, and  the  train  had  started,  he  stuck 
to  the  window,  and  only  his  cropped  head 
kept  turning  about  on  his  thin  neck,  as 
though  on  a  metal  spindle. 


no    PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

Petka  had  been  born  and  bred  in  the 
city,  and  was  now  in  the  country  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  and  everything  there  was 
to  him  strikingly  new  and  strange ;  that 
you  could  see  so  far  ;  that  the  world  looked 
like  a  lawn ;  and  that  the  sky  of  this  new 
world  was  so  wonderfully  bright  and  far- 
stretching — just  as  if  you  were  looking  at  it 
from  the  roof  of  a  house  !  Petka  looked 
at  it  from  his  own  side,  and  when  he  turned 
to  his  mother,  there  was  the  same  sky  shin- 
ing blue  through  the  opposite  window,  and 
on  its  surface  were  flocking — like  little 
angels — small,  merry  white  flecks  of  clouds. 
Now  Petka  would  turn  back  to  his  own 
window,  now  run  over  to  the  other  side  of 
the  carriage,  with  confidence  laying  his  ill- 
washed  little  hands  on  the  shoulders  and 
knees  of  strangers,  who  answered  him  back 
with  a  smile.  But  one  gentleman  who  was 
reading  a  newspaper,  and  yawning  all  the 
time,  either  from  excessive  fatigue  or  from 
ennui,  looked  askance  at  the  boy  once  or 
twice  in  not  too  friendly  a  manner,  and 
Nadejda  hastened  to  apologise  : 

'  It  is  his  first  journey  by  rail — and  he  is 
interested.' 

'  Humph/  growled  the  gentleman,  and 
buried  himself  in  his  newspaper. 

Nadejda  would  very  much  have  liked  to 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    in 

tell  him,  how  that  Petka  had  lived  three 
years  with  a  barber,  who  had  promised  to 
set  him  upon  his  feet ;  and  that  this  would 
be  a  very  good  thing,  since  she  was  a  lone 
weak  woman,  with,  no  other  means  of  sup- 
port in  case  of  sickness  or  when  she  became 
old.  But  the  expression  of  his  face  was  so 
uninviting,  that  she  kept  all  this  to  herself. 

To  the  right  of  the  railway  there  was  a 
broad  stretch  of  undulating  plain,  dark 
green  with  the  continual  moisture,  and  on 
its  edge  there  stood  grey  little  houses,  just 
like  toys,  and  upon  a  high  green  hill,  at  the 
foot  of  which  flowed  a  silvery  river,  was 
perched  a  similarly  toy-like  white  church. 
When  the  train,  with  a  noisy  metallic  clank- 
ing, which  suddenly  became  intensified, 
rushed  on  to  a  bridge,  and  seemed  to  hang 
suspended  in  the  air  over  the  mirror-like 
surface  of  a  river,  Petka  gave  a  little  shiver 
of  fright  and  surprise,  and  started  back  from 
the  window  ;  but  immediately  turned  to  it 
again,  for  fear  of  losing  a  single  detail  of 
the  journey.  His  eyes  had  long  ceased  to 
look  sleepy,  and  the  lines  had  disappeared 
from  his  face.  It  was  as  though  some  one 
had  passed  a  hot  flat-iron  over  his  face, 
smoothing  out  the  wrinkles,  and  leaving 
the  surface  white  and  shining. 

For  the  first  two  days  of  his  sojourn  at 


H2    PETKA  AT  THE   BUNGALOW 

the  bungalow  the  wealth  and  force  of  the 
new  impressions  which  inundated  him  from 
above  and  from  below  confused  his  timid 
little  soul.  In  contradistinction  to  the 
savages  of  a  former  age,  who  felt  lost  on 
coming  into  a  city  from  the  wilderness,  this 
modern  savage,  who  had  been  snatched 
away  from  the  stony  embrace  of  the  massive 
city,  felt  weak  and  impotent  in  the  face  of 
nature.  Here  everything  was  to  him  liv- 
ing, sentient,  and  possessed  of  conscious 
will.  He  was  afraid  of  the  forest,  which 
gently  rustled  over  his  head,  and  was  so 
dark,  so  passive,  so  terrible  in  its  immensity. 
But  the  bright  green  joyful  meadows,  which 
seemed  to  be  singing  with  all  their  bright 
flowers,  he  loved,  and  wished  to  fondle  them 
as  a  sister ;  and  the  dark  blue  sky  called 
him  to  itself,  and  laughed  like  a  mother. 
Petka  would  become  agitated,  shudder, 
and  grow  pale,  would  smile  at  something, 
and  slowly,  like  an  old  man,  walk  along  the 
outskirts  of  the  forest,  and  on  the  wooded 
shore  of  the  pond.  There,  weary  and  out 
of  breath,  he  would  fling  himself  down  on 
the  thick  damp  grass,  and  sink  into  it,  only 
his  little  freckled  nose  appearing  above  the 
green  surface.  For  the  first  two  days  he 
was  always  going  back  to  his  mother,  and 
nestling  up  to  her :  and  when  the  master 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    113 

of  the  house  asked  him  whether  he  liked 
being  at  the  bungalow,  he  would  smile  in 
confusion  and  answer : 

'  Very  much  !  ' 

And  then  he  would  go  off  again  to  the 
threatening  forest,  and  the  still  water,  and 
it  was  as  though  he  were  questioning  them. 

But  after  two  days  Petka  had  arrived 
at  a  complete  understanding  with  Nature. 
This  was  brought  about  by  the  co-operation 
of  a  schoolboy  named  Mitya  from  old  Tzar- 
itzyno.  The  schoolboy  had  a  swarthy 
countenance,  the  colour  of  a  second-class 
carriage.  His  hair  stood  erect  on  the  crown 
of  his  head,  and  was  quite  white,  so  bleached 
was  it  by  the  sun.  He  was  fishing  in  the 
pond,  when  Petka  caught  sight,  of  him  and 
unceremoniously  entered  into  conversation 
with  him.  They  came  to  terms  with  won- 
derful promptitude ;  he  allowed  Petka  to 
hold  one  of  the  rods,  and  afterwards  took 
him  some  distance  off  to  bathe.  Petka 
was  very  much  afraid  of  going  into  the 
water,  but  when  once  in,  he  did  not  wish 
to  come  out  again,  but  pretended  to  swim, 
putting  his  forehead  and  nose  above  the 
water.  Then  he  got  a  great  gulp  of  water 
in  his  mouth,  and  beat  the  water  with  his 
hands  and  made  a  great  splashing.  At  this 
moment  he  was  very  like  a  puppy,  that  had 


H4    PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

for  the  first  time  fallen  into  the  water. 
When  Petka  dressed  himself  he  was  as  blue 
as  a  corpse  with  the  cold,  and  as  he  talked 
his  teeth  chattered.  At  the  proposal  of 
Mitya,  who  was  of  inexhaustible  resource, 
they  next  explored  the  ruins  of  a  mansion. 
They  clambered  upon  the  roof  overgrown 
with  shoots,  and  wandered  between  the 
broken-down  walls  of  the  great  building. 
They  did  enjoy  themselves  there  !  All  about 
heaps  of  stones  were  piled  up,  on  which  they 
climbed  with  difficulty,  and  between  which 
grew  young  rowan  and  birch  trees.  It  was 
still  as  death,  and  it  seemed  as  though  some 
one  suddenly  jumped  out  from  a  corner,  or 
that  some  horrible,  terrible  face  appeared 
through  the  aperture  left  by  a  broken  win- 
dow. By  degrees  Petka  began  to  feel 
quite  at  home  at  the  bungalow,  and  he  forgot 
that  there  was  any  Osip  Abramovich  or 
barber's  shop  in  the  world. 

'  Just  look  how  he  is  putting  on  flesh  ! 
He's  a  regular  merchant !  '  Nadejda  at  this 
time  would  exclaim  with  delight. 

She  was  stout  enough  herself  and  her  face 
shone  with  the  heat  of  the  kitchen  like  a 
copper  samovar.  She  attributed  his  im- 
provement to  the  fact  that  she  gave  him 
plenty  to  eat.  But  in  reality  Petka  ate 
very  little  indeed,  not  because  he  did  not 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    115 

care  for  his  food,  but  because  he  could 
scarcely  find  time  for  it.  If  only  it  had  been 
possible  to  bolt  his  food  without  mastica- 
tion ! — but  one  must  masticate,  and  during 
the  intervals  swing  one's  feet,  since  Nadejda 
ate  deuced  slowly,  polishing  the  bones  and 
wiping  her  fingers  on  her  apron,  while  she 
kept  up  a  perpetual  chatter.  But  he  was 
up  to  the  neck  in  business  :  he  had  to  bathe 
four  times,  to  cut  a  fishing-rod  in  the  hazel 
coppice,  to  dig  for  worms — all  this  required 
time.  Now  Petka  ran  about  bare-foot, 
and  that  was  a  thousand  times  pleasanter 
than  wearing  boots  with  thick  soles  :  the 
rustling  ground  now  warmed,  now  cooled 
his  feet  so  deliciously.  He  had  even  dis- 
carded his  second-hand  school  jacket,  in 
which  he  looked  like  a  full-grown  master- 
barber,  and  thereby  became  amazingly 
rejuvenated.  He  put  it  on  only  in  the  even- 
ing, when  he  went  and  stood  on  the  dam  to 
watch  the  Master  and  Mistress  boating. 
Well-dressed  and  cheerful  they  would  laugh- 
ingly take  their  seats  in  the  rocking  boat, 
which  leisurely  ploughed  the  mirror-like 
surface  of  the  water  on  which  the  reflection 
of  the  trees  swayed  as  though  agitated  by  a 
breeze. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  the  Master  brought 
from  the  city  a  letter  addressed  '  to  Cook 


Nadejda.'  When  he  had  read  it  over  to 
her  she  began  to  cry,  and  smeared  her  face 
all  over  with  the  soot  which  was  on  her  apron. 
From  the  fragmentary  remarks  which  accom- 
panied this  operation,  it  might  be  deduced 
that  the  contents  of  the  letter  affected 
Petka.  This  took  place  in  the  evening. 
Petka  was  playing  athletic  sports  by  him- 
self in  the  back  court,  and  puffing  out  his 
cheeks,  because  that  made  it  considerably 
easier  to  jump.  The  schoolboy  Mitya  had 
taught  him  this  stupid  but  interesting  occu- 
pation, and  now  Petka,  like  a  true  '  sports- 
man/ was  practising  alone.  The  master 
came  out,  and  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der, said  : 

'  Well,  my  friend,  you  have  to  go  !  ' 

Petka  smiled  in  confusion  and  said 
nothing.  '  What  a  strange  lad/  thought 
the  master. 

'  Yes,  have  to  go/ 

Petka  smiled.  Nadejda  coming  up  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  repeated  : 

'  You  have  to  go,  sonny/ 

'  Where  ?  '  said  Petka  in  surprise.  He 
had  forgotten  the  city  ;  and  the  other  place, 
to  which  he  had  always  so  wanted  to  go 
away — was  found. 

'  To  your  master,  Osip  Abramovich/ 

Still    Petka   failed  to   understand,  though 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    117 

the  matter  was  as  clear  as  daylight.  But 
his  mouth  felt  suddenly  dry,  and  his  tongue 
moved  with  difficulty  as  he  asked  : 

'  How  then  can  I  go  fishing  to-morrow  ? 
Look,  here  is  the  rod/ 

'  But  what  can  one  do  ?  He  wants  you. 
Prokopy,  he  says,  is  ill,  and  has  been  taken 
to  the  hospital.  He  says  he  has  not  enough 
hands.  Don't  cry !  See,  he'll  be  sure  to 
let  you  come  again.  He  is  kind  is  Osip 
Abramovich.' 

But  Petka  was  not  thinking  of  crying, 
and  still  did  not  understand.  On  one  side 
there  was  the  fact,  the  fishing-rod — on  the 
other  the  phantom,  Osip  Abramovich.  But 
gradually  Petka's  thoughts  began  to  clear 
and  a  strange  metamorphosis  took  place  : 
Osip  Abramovich  became  the  fact,  and  the 
fishing-rod,  which  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
dry,  was  changed  into  the  phantom.  And 
then  Petka  surprised  his  mother,  and  dis- 
tressed the  master  and  his  wife,  and  would 
have  been  surprised  himself  if  he  had  been 
capable  of  self-analysis.  He  did  not  begin 
to  cry,  as  town  children,  thin  and  half- 
starved,  cry  ;  he  simply  bawled  louder  than 
the  strongest- voiced  man ;  and  began  to 
roll  on  the  ground,  as  the  drunken  women 
rolled  on  the  boulevard.  He  clenched  his 
skinny  fists,  and  struck  his  mother's  hands 


n8    PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

and  the  ground,  in  fact  everything  he  came 
across,  feeling,  indeed,  the  pain  caused  by 
the  pebbles  and  sharp  stones,  but  striving, 
as  it  were,  to  increase  it. 

In  course  of  time  Petka  became  calm 
again,  and  the  master  said  to  his  wife,  who 
was  standing  before  the  glass  arranging  a 
white  rose  in  her  hair  : 

'  You  see  he  has  left  off.  Children's  grief 
is  not  long-lived/ 

'  All  the  same  I  am  very  sorry  for  the  poor 
little  boy/ 

'  Yes,  indeed !  they  live  under  terrible 
conditions,  but  there  are  people  who  are 
still  worse  off.  Are  you  ready  ?  ' 

And  they  went  off  to  Digman's  Gardens, 
where  dances  had  been  arranged  for  the 
evening,  and  a  military  band  was  already 
playing. 

The  next  day  Petka  started  for  Moscow 
by  the  7  a.m.  train.  Again  he  saw  the  green 
fields,  grey  with  the  night's  dew,  only  they 
did  not  now  run  in  the  same  direction  as 
before,  but  in  the  opposite.  The  second- 
hand school  jacket  enveloped  his  thin  body, 
and  from  the  opening  at  the  neck  stuck  out 
the  corner  of  a  white  paper  collar.  Petka 
did  not  turn  to  the  window,  indeed,  he  hardly 
looked  at  it,  but  sat  so  still  and  modest,  with 
his  little  hands  primly  folded  upon  his  knees. 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW    119 

His  eyes  were  sleepy  and  apathetic,  and  fine 
wrinkles,  as  in  the  case  of  an  old  man,  gathered 
about  his  eyes  and  under  his  nose.  Sud- 
denly the  pillars  and  the  planks  of  the  plat- 
form flashed  before  the  window,  and  the 
train  stopped. 

They  pressed  through  the  hurrying  crowd, 
and  came  out  into  the  noisy  street ;  and 
the  great,  greedy  city  callously  swallowed 
up  its  little  victim. 

'  Put  away  the  fishing  tackle  for  me,'  said 
Petka,  when  his  mother  deposited  him  at 
the  door  of  the  barber's  shop. 

'  Trust  me  for  that,  sonny  !  Maybe  you 
will  come  again.' 

And  once  more  in  the  dirty,  stuffy  shop 
was  heard  the  sharp  call,  '  Boy,  water  !  ' 
and  the  customer  saw  a  small,  dirty  hand 
thrust  out  to  the  ledge  below  the  mirror, 
and  heard  the  vague,  threatening  whisper, 
'  Just  you  wait  a  bit ! '  This  meant  that 
the  sleepy  boy  had  either  spilled  the  water, 
or  had  bungled  the  orders.  But  at  nights 
from  the  place  where  Nikolka  and  Petka 
lay  side  by  side,  a  little  low  and  agitated 
voice  might  be  heard  telling  about  the  bunga- 
low, and  speaking  of  what  is  not,  and  what 
no  one  has  ever  seen  or  heard.  And  when 
silence  supervened,  and  only  the  irregular 
breathing  of  the  children  was  audible,  an- 


120    PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

other  voice,  unusually  deep  and  strong  for 
a  child,  would  exclaim  : 

'  The  devils  !     May  they  bu'st !  ' 

'  Who  are  devils  ?  ' 

'  Why,  the  whole  blooming  lot,  of  course  !  ' 

A  string  of  carts  passed  by,  and  drowned 
the  boys'  voices  with  its  noisy  rumbling ; 
and  then  that  distant  cry  of  complaint  was 
heard,  which  had  for  long  been  borne  in 
from  the  boulevard,  where  a  drunken  man 
was  beating  an  equally  drunken  woman. 


SILENCE 
I 

ON  a  moonlight  night  in  May,  when  the 
nightingales  were  singing,  his  wife  came  to 
Father  Ignaty  who  was  sitting  in  his  study. 
Her  face  was  expressive  of  suffering,  and  the 
small  lamp  trembled  in  her  hand.  She 
came  up  to  her  husband,  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  said  sobbing  : 

'  Father,  let  us  go  to  Verochka  ! ' 

Without  turning  his  head,  Father  Ignaty 
frowned  at  his  wife  over  his  spectacles,  and 
looked  long  and  fixedly,  until  she  made  a 
motion  of  discomfort  with  her  free  hand, 
and  sat  down  on  a  low  divan. 

'  How  pitiless  you  both  are/  said  she 
slowly  and  with  strong  emphasis  on  the 
word  '  both/  and  her  kindly  puffed  face  was 
contorted  with  a  look  of  pain  and  hardness, 
as  though  she  wished  to  express  by  her  looks 
how  hard  people  were — her  husband  and  her 
daughter. 

Father  Ignaty  gave  a  laugh  and  stood  up. 
121 


122  SILENCE 

Closing  his  book,  he  took  off  his  spectacles, 
put  them  into  their  case,  and  fell  into  a 
brown  study.  His  big  black  beard,  shot 
with  silver  threads,  lay  in  a  graceful  curve 
upon  his  chest,  and  rose  and  fell  slowly  under 
his  deep  breathing. 

'  Well,  then,  we  will  go  !  '  said  he. 

Olga  Stepanovna  rose  quickly,  and  asked 
in  a  timid,  ingratiating  voice  : 

'  Only  don't  scold  her,  father  !  You  know 
what  she  is.' 

Vera's  room  was  in  a  belvedere  at  the  top 
of  the  house,  and  the  narrow  wooden  stairs 
bent  and  groaned  under  the  heavy  steps  of 
Father  Ignaty.  Tall  and  ponderous,  he  was 
obliged  to  stoop  so  as  not  to  hit  his  head 
against  the  ceiling  above,  and  he  frowned 
fastidiously  when  his  wife's  white  jacket 
touched  his  face.  He  knew  that  nothing 
would  come  of  their  conversation  with  Vera. 

'  What,  is  that  you  ?  '  asked  Vera,  lifting 
one  bare  arm  to  her  eyes.  The  other  arm 
lay  on  the  top  of  the  white  summer  counter- 
pane, from  which  it  was  scarcely  distinguish- 
able, so  white,  transparent  and  cold  was  it. 

'  Verochka !  '  the  mother  began,  but  gave 
a  sob  and  was  silent. 

1  Vera ! '  said  the  father,  endeavouring  to 
soften  his  dry,  hard  voice.  '  Vera,  tell  us 
what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? ' 


SILENCE  123 

Vera  was  silent. 

'  Vera,  are  your  mother  and  I  undeserving 
of  your  confidence  ?  Do  we  not  love  you  ? 
Have  you  any  one  nearer  to  you  than  our- 
selves ?  Speak  to  us  of  your  grief,  and 
believe  me,  an  old  and  experienced  man,  you 
will  feel  the  better  for  it.  And  so  shall  we. 
Look  at  your  old  mother,  how  she  is  suffering.' 

1  Verochka ! ' 

'  And  to  me '  his  voice  trembled,  as 

though  something  in  it  had  broken  in  two, 
'  and  to  me,  is  it  easy,  think  you  ?  As 
though  I  did  not  see  that  you  were  devoured 

by  some  grief ,  but  what  is  it  ?  And  I, 

your  father,  am  kept  in  ignorance.  Is  it 
right  ?  ' 

Vera  still  kept  silence.  Father  Ignaty 
stroked  his  beard  with  special  precaution, 
as  though  he  feared  that  his  fingers  would 
involuntarily  begin  to  tear  it,  and  con- 
tinued : 

'  Against  my  wishes  you  went  to  St. 
Petersburg — did  I  curse  you  for  your  diso- 
bedience ?  Or  did  I  refuse  you  money  ? 
Or  do  you  say  I  was  not  kind  ?  Well, 
why  don't  you  speak  ?  See,  the  good  your 
St.  Petersburg  has  done  you ! ' 

Father  Ignaty  ceased  speaking,  and  there 
rose  before  his  mind's  eye  something  big, 
granite-built,  terrible,  full  of  unknown  dan- 


124  SILENCE 

gers,  and  of  strange  callous  people.  And 
there  alone  and  weak  was  his  Vera,  and  there 
she  had  been  ruined.  An  angry  hatred  of 
that  terrible  incomprehensible  city  arose  in 
Father  Ignaty's  soul,  together  with  anger 
towards  his  daughter,  who  kept  silent,  so 
obstinately  silent. 

'  St.  Petersburg  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it,'  said  Vera  crossly,  and  closed  her  eyes. 
*  But  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me. 
You  had  better  go  to  bed,  it's  late.' 

'  Verochka  ! '  groaned  her  mother.  '  My 
little  daughter  confide  in  me  !  ' 

'  Oh  !  mamma  !  '  said  Vera,  impatiently 
interrupting  her. 

Father  Ignaty  sat  down  on  a  chair  and 
began  to  laugh. 

'  Well  then,  nothing  is  the  matter  after 
all  ?  '  he  asked  ironically. 

'  Father,'  said  Vera,  in  a  sharp  voice,  raising 
herself  up  on  her  bed,  '  you  know  that  I  love 
you  and  mamma.  But — I  do  feel  so  dull. 
All  this  will  pass  away.  Really,  you  had 
better  go  to  bed.  I  want  to  sleep,  too. 
To-morrow,  or  sometime,  we  will  have  a 
talk.' 

Father  Ignaty  rose  abruptly,  so  that  his 
chair  bumped  against  the  wall,  and  took  his 
wife's  arm. 

'  Let's  go ! ' 


SILENCE  125 

'  Verochka !  ' 

'  Let's  go — I  tell  you/  cried  Father  Ignaty. 
'  If  she  has  forgotten  God,  shall  we  too ! 
Why  should  we  !  ' 

He  drew  Olga  Stepanovna  away,  almost  by 
main  force,  and  as  they  were  descending  the 
stairs,  she,  dragging  her  steps  more  slowly, 
said  in  an  angry  whisper  : 

'  Ugh  !  pope,  it's  you  who  have  made  her 
so.  It's  from  you  she  has  got  this  manner. 
And  you'll  have  to  answer  for  it.  Ah  !  how 
wretched  I  am ' 

And  she  began  to  cry,  and  kept  blinking 
her  eyes,  so  that  she  could  not  see  the  steps, 
and  letting  her  feet  go  down  as  it  were  into  an 
abyss  below  into  which  she  wished  to  pre- 
cipitate herself. 

From  that  day  forward  Father  Ignaty 
ceased  to  talk  to  his  daughter,  and  she  seemed 
not  to  notice  the  change.  As  before,  she 
would  now  lie  in  her  room,  now  go  about, 
frequently  wiping  her  eyes  with  the  palms 
of  her  hands,  as  though  they  were  obstructed. 
And  oppressed  by  the  silence  of  these  two 
people,  the  pope's  wife,  who  was  fond  of 
jokes  and  laughter,  became  lost  and  timid, 
hardly  knowing  what  to  say  or  do. 

Sometimes  Vera  went  out  for  a  walk. 
About  a  week  after  the  conversation  related 
above,  she  went  out  in  the  evening  as  usual. 


126  SILENCE 

They  never  saw  her  again  alive,  for  that 
evening  she  threw  herself  under  a  train, 
which  cut  her  in  two. 

Father  Ignaty  buried  her  himself.  His 
wife  was  not  present  at  the  church,  because  at 
the  news  of  Vera's  death  she  had  had  a 
stroke.  She  had  lost  the  use  of  her  feet  and 
hands  and  tongue,  and  lay  motionless  in  a 
semi-darkened  room,  while  close  by  her  the 
bells  tolled  in  the  belfry.  She  heard  them 
all  coming  out  of  church,  heard  the  choristers 
singing  before  their  house,  and  tried  to 
raise  her  hand  to  cross  herself,  but  the  hand 
would  not  obey  her  will.  She  wished  to 
say  :  '  Good-bye,  Vera,'  but  her  tongue  lay 
inert  in  her  mouth,  swollen  and  heavy. 
She  lay  so  still  that  any  one  who  saw  her 
would  have  thought  that  she  was  resting,  or 
asleep.  Only — her  eyes  were  open. 

There  were  many  people  in  the  church  at 
the  funeral,  both  acquaintances  of  Father 
Ignaty's  and  strangers.  All  present  com- 
passionated Vera,  who  had  died  such  a 
terrible  death,  and  they  tried  in  Father 
Ignaty's  movements  and  voice  to  find  signs 
of  profound  grief.  They  were  not  fond  of 
Father  Ignaty,  because  he  was  rough  and 
haughty  in  his  manners,  harsh  and  unfor- 
giving with  his  penitents,  while  himself  jeal- 
ous and  greedy,  he  availed  himself  of  every 


SILENCE  127 

chance  to  take  more  than  his  dues  from  a 
parishioner.  They  all  wished  to  see  him 
suffering,  broken-down ;  they  wished  to  see 
him  acknowledge  that  he  was  doubly  guilty 
of  his  daughter's  death — as  a  harsh  father, 
and  as  a  bad  priest,  who  could  not  protect 
his  own  flesh  and  blood  from  sin.  So  they 
all  watched  him  with  curiosity,  but  he, 
feeling  their  eyes  directed  on  his  broad 
powerful  back,  endeavoured  to  straighten  it, 
and  thought  not  so  much  of  his  dead  daughter 
as  of  not  compromising  his  dignity. 

'  A  well-seasoned  pope/  Karzenov  the  car- 
penter, to  whom  he  still  owed  money  for  some 
frames,  said  with  a  nod  in  his  direction. 

And  so,  firm  and  upright,  Father  Ignaty 
went  to  the  cemetery,  and  came  back  the 
same.  And  not  till  he  reached  the  door  of 
his  wife's  room  did  his  back  bend  a  little  ; 
but  that  might  have  been  because  the  door 
was  not  high  enough  for  his  stature.  Coming 
in  from  the  light  he  could  only  with  difficulty 
distinguish  his  wife's  face,  and  when  he 
succeeded  in  so  doing,  he  perceived  that  it 
was  perfectly  still  and  that  there  were  no 
tears  in  her  eyes.  In  them  was  there  neither 
anger  nor  grief ;  they  were  dumb,  and  pain- 
fully, obstinately  silent,  as  was  also  her 
whole  obese  feeble  body  that  was  pressed 
against  the  bed-rail. 


i28  SILENCE 

'  Well,  what  ?  How  are  you  feeling  ?  ' 
Father  Ignaty  inquired. 

But  her  lips  were  dumb,  and  her  eyes  were 
silent.  Father  Ignaty  laid  his  hand  on  her 
forehead ;  it  was  cold  and  damp,  and  Olga 
Stepanovna  gave  no  sign  whatever  that  she 
had  felt  his  touch.  And  when  he  removed 
his  hands  from  her  forehead,  two  deep,  grey 
eyes  looked  at  him  without  blinking ;  they 
seemed  almost  black  on  account  of  the  dila- 
tion of  the  pupils,  and  in  them  was  neither 
grief  nor  anger. 

'  Well,  I  will  go  to  'my  own  room/  said 
Father  Ignaty,  who  had  turned  cold  and 
frightened. 

He  went  through  the  guest-chamber,  where 
everything  was  clean  and  orderly  as  ever, 
and  the  high-backed  chairs  stood  swathed  in 
white  covers,  like  corpses  in  their  shrouds. 
At  one  of  the  windows  hung  a  wire  cage,  but 
it  was  empty  and  the  door  was  open. 

'  Nastasya !  '  Father  Ignaty  called,  and 
his  voice  seemed  to  him  rough,  and  he  felt 
awkward,  that  he  had  called  so  loud  in 
those  quiet  rooms,  so  soon  after  the  funeral 
of  their  daughter.  '  Nastasya/  he  called 
more  gently,  '  where's  the  canary  ?  ' 

The  cook,  who  had  cried  so  much  that  her 
nose  was  swollen  and  become  as  red  as  a 
beet,  answered  rudely  : 


SILENCE  129 

'  Don't  know.     It  flew  away/ 

'  Why  did  you  let  it  go  ?  '  said  Father 
Ignaty,  angrily  knitting  his  brows. 

Nastasya  burst  out  crying,  and  wiping  her 
eyes  with  the  ends  of  a  print  kerchief  she 
wore  over  her  head,  said  through  her  tears  : 

'  The  dear  little  soul  of  the  young  mistress. 
How  could  I  keep  it  ?  ' 

And  it  seemed  even  to  Father  Ignaty  that 
the  happy  little  yellow  canary,  which  used 
to  sing  always  with  its  head  thrown  back, 
was  really  the  soul  of  Vera,  and  that  if  it  had 
not  flown  away  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  say  that  Vera  was  dead.  And  he  became 
still  more  angry  with  the  cook,  and  shouted  : 

'  Get  along  !  '  and  when  Nastasya  did  not 
at  once  make  for  the  door,  added  '  Fool  !  ' 


II 


FROM  the  day  of  the  funeral  silence  reigned 
in  the  little  house.  It  was  not  stillness,  for 
that  is  the  mere  absence  of  noise,  but  it  was 
silence  which  means  that  those  who  kept 
silence  could,  apparently,  have  spoken  if  they 
had  pleased.  So  thought  Father  Ignaty 
when,  entering  his  wife's  chamber,  he  would 
meet  an  obstinate  glance,  so  heavy  that  it  was 
as  though  the  whole  air  were  turned  to  lead, 
and  was  pressing  on  his  head  and  back.  So 
he  thought  when  he  examined  his  daughter's 
music,  on  which  her  very  voice  was  impressed  ; 
her  books,  and  her  portrait,  a  large  one 
painted  in  colours  which  she  had  brought 
with  her  from  St.  Petersburg.  In  examining 
her  portrait  a  certain  order  was  evolved. 

First  he  would  look  at  her  neck,  on  which 
the  light  was  thrown  in  the  portrait,  and 
would  imagine  to  himself  a  scratch  on  it, 
such  as  was  on  the  neck  of  the  dead  Vera,  and 
the  origin  of  which  he  could  not  understand. 
And  every  time  he  meditated  on  the  cause. 

130 


SILENCE  131 

If  it  had  been  the  train  which  struck  it,  it 
would  have  shattered  her  whole  head,  and 
the  head  of  the  dead  Vera  was  quite  uninjured. 

Could  it  be  that  some  one  had  touched  it 
with  his  foot  when  carrying  home  the  corpse  ; 
or  was  it  done  unintentionally  with  the  nail  ? 

But  to  think  long  about  the  details  of  her 
death  was  horrible  to  Father  Ignaty,  so  he 
would  pass  on  to  the  eyes  of  the  portrait. 
They  were  black  and  beautiful,  with  long 
eyelashes,  the  thick  shadow  of  which  lay 
below,  so  that  the  whites  seemed  peculiarly 
bright,  and  the  two  eyes  were  as  though 
enclosed  in  black  mourning  frames.  The 
unknown  artist,  a  man  of  talent,  had  given 
to  them  a  strange  expression.  It  was  as 
though  between  the  eyes,  and  that  on  which 
they  rested,  there  was  a  thin,  transparent 
film.  It  reminded  one  of  the  black  top  of  a 
grand  piano,  on  which  the  summer  dust 
lay  in  a  thin  layer,  almost  imperceptible,  but 
still  dimming  the  brightness  of  the  polished 
wood.  And  wherever  Father  Ignaty  placed 
the  portrait,  the  eyes  continually  followed 
him,  not  speaking,  but  silent ;  and  the  silence 
was  so  clear  that  it  seemed  possible  to  hear 
it.  And  by  degrees  Father  Ignaty  came  to 
think  that  he  did  hear  the  silence. 

Every  morning  after  the  Eucharist  Father 
Ignaty  would  go  to  the  sitting-room,  would 


132  SILENCE 

take  in  at  a  glance  the  empty  cage,  and  all 
the  well-known  arrangement  of  the  room, 
sit  down  in  an  arm-chair,  close  his  eyes  and 
listen  to  the  silence  of  the  house.  It  was 
something  strange.  The  cage  was  gently 
and  tenderly  silent ;  and  grief  and  tears, 
and  far-away  dead  laughter  were  felt  in  that 
silence.  The  silence  of  his  wife,  softened 
by  the  intervening  walls,  was  obstinate, 
heavy  as  lead ;  and  terrible,  so  terrible  that 
Father  Ignaty  turned  cold  on  the  hottest 
day.  Endless,  cold  as  the  grave,  mysterious 
as  death,  was  the  silence  of  his  daughter. 
It  was  as  though  the  silence  were  a  torture 
to  itself,  and  as  though  it  longed  passion- 
ately to  pass  into  speech,  but  that  something 
strong  and  dull  as  a  machine,  held  it  motion- 
less, and  stretched  it  like  a  wire.  And  then 
somewhere  in  the  far  distance,  the  wire 
began  to  vibrate  and  emit  a  soft,  timid, 
pitiful  sound.  Father  Ignaty,  with  a  mix- 
ture of  joy  and  fear,  would  catch  this  incipi- 
ent sound,  and  pressing  his  hands  on  the 
arms  of  the  chair,  would  stretch  his  head 
forward  and  wait  for  the  sound  to  reach  him. 
But  it  would  break  off,  and  lapse  into  silence. 
'  Nonsense  !  '  Father  Ignaty  would  angrily 
exclaim,  and  rise  from  the  chair,  tall  and 
upright  as  ever.  From  the  window  was  to 
be  seen  the  market-place,  bathed  in  sunlight, 


SILENCE  133 

paved  with  round,  even  stones,  and  on  the 
other  side  the  stone  wall  of  a  long,  window- 
less  storehouse.  At  the  corner  stood  a  cab 
like  a  statue  in  clay,  and  it  was  incomprehen- 
sible why  it  continued  to  stand  there,  when 
for  whole  hours  together  not  a  single  passer- 
by was  to  be  seen. 


Ill 


OUT  of  the  house  Father  Ignaty  had  much 
talking  to  do  :  with  his  ecclesiastical  sub- 
ordinates, and  with  his  parishioners  when 
he  was  performing  his  duties  ;  and  sometimes 
with  acquaintances  when  he  played  with 
them  at  '  Preference.'  But  when  he  returned 
home  he  thought  that  he  had  been  all  the 
day  silent.  This  came  of  the  fact  that  with 
none  of  these  people  could  he  speak  of  the 
question  which  was  the  chief  and  most  im- 
portant of  all  to  him,  which  racked  his 
thoughts  every  night :  Why  had  Vera  died  ? 

Father  Ignaty  was  unwilling  to  admit  to 
himself  that  it  was  impossible  now  to  solve 
this  difficulty,  and  kept  on  thinking  that  it 
was  still  possible. 

Every  night — and  they  were  all  now  for 
him  sleepless — he  would  recall  the  moment 
when  he  and  his  wife  had  stood  by  Vera's 
bed  at  darkest  midnight,  and  he  had  en- 
treated her  '  Speak  !  '  And  when  in  his 
recollections  he  arrived  at  that  word,  even 

134 


SILENCE  135 

the  rest  of  the  scene  presented  itself  to  him 
as  different  to  what  it  had  really  been.  His 
closed  eyes  preserved  in  their  darkness  a  vivid, 
unblurred  picture  of  that  night ;  they  saw 
distinctly  Vera  lifting  herself  up  upon  her 

bed  and  saying  with  a  smile But  what 

did  she  say  ?  And  that  unuttered  word  of 
hers,  which  would  solve  the  whole  question, 
seemed  so  near,  that  if  he  were  to  stretch 
his  ear  and  still  the  beating  of  his  heart,  then, 
then  he  would  hear  it — and  at  the  same  time 
it  was  so  infinitely,  so  desperately  far. 

Father  Ignaty  would  rise  from  his  bed, 
and  stretching  forth  his  clasped  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  supplication,  entreat : 

'  Vera ! ' 

And  silence  was  the  answer  he  received. 

One  evening  Father  Ignaty  went  to  Olga 
Stepanovna's  room,  where  he  had  not  been 
for  about  a  week,  and  sitting  down  near  the 
head  of  her  bed,  he  turned  away  from  her 
doleful,  obstinate  gaze,  and  said  : 

'  Mother  !  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about 
Vera.  Do  you  hear  ?  ' 

Her  eyes  were  silent,  and  Father  Ignaty 
raising  his  voice  began  to  speak  in  the  loud 
and  severe  tones  with  which  he  addressed 
his  penitents  : 

'  I  know  you  think  that  I  was  the  cause  of 
Vera's  death.  But  consider,  did  I  love  her 


136  SILENCE 

less  than  you  ?     You  judge  strangely 1 

was  strict,  but  did  that  prevent  her  from 
doing  as  she  pleased  ?  I  made  little  of  the 
respect  due  to  a  father  ;  I  meekly  bowed  my 
neck,  when  she,  with  no  fear  of  my  curse,  went 
away thither.  And  you mother- 
did  not  you  with  tears  entreat  her  to  remain, 
until  I  ordered  you  to  be  silent.  Am  I  re- 
sponsible for  her  being  born  hard-hearted  ? 
Did  I  not  teach  her  of  God,  of  humility,  and 
of  love  ? 

Father  Ignaty  gave  a  swift  glance  into  his 
wife's  eyes,  and  turned  away. 

'  What  could  I  do  with  her,  if  she  would 
not  open  her  grief  to  me.  Command  ?  I 
commanded  her.  Intreat  ?  I  intreated. 
What  ?  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  have  gone 
down  on  my  knees  before  the  little  chit  of  a 
girl,  and  wept,  like  an  old  woman  !  What 
she  had  got  in  her  head,  and  where  she  got 
it,  I  know  not.  Cruel,  heartless  daughter  !  ' 

Father  Ignaty  smote  his  knees  with  his 
fists. 

'  She  was  devoid  of  love — that's  what  it 
was !  I  know  well  enough  what  she  called 
me — a  tyrant.  You  she  did  love,  didn't 
she  ?  You  who  wept,  and humbled  your- 
self ?  ' 

Father  Ignaty  laughed  noiselessly. 

'  Lo — o — ved  !     That's  it,  to  comfort  you 


SILENCE  137 

she  chose  such  a  death — a  cruel,  disgraceful 
death  !  She  died  on  the  ballast,  in  the  dirt 

like  a  d — d — og,  to  which  some  one  gives 

a  kick  on  the  muzzle.' 

Father  Ignaty's  voice  sounded  low  and 
hoarse  : 

'  I'm  ashamed !  I'm  ashamed  to  go  out 
into  the  street !  I'm  ashamed  to  come  out 
of  the  chancel !  I'm  ashamed  before  God. 
Cruel,  unworthy  daughter  !  One  could  curse 
you  in  your  grave ' 

When  Father  Ignaty  glanced  again  at  his 
wife,  she  had  fainted,  and  did  not  come  to 
herself  for  some  hours.  And  when  she  did 
come  to  herself  her  eyes  were  silent,  and  it 
was  impossible  to  know  whether  she  under- 
stood what  Father  Ignaty  had  said  to  her, 
or  no. 

That  same  night — it  was  a  moonlight 
night  in  July,  still,  warm,  soundless — Father 
Ignaty  crept  on  tiptoe,  so  that  his  wife  and 
her  nurse  should  not  hear  him,  up  the  stairs 
to  Vera's  room.  The  window  of  the  belve- 
dere had  not  been  opened  since  the  death  of 
Vera,  and  the  atmosphere  was  dry  and  hot, 
with  a  slight  smell  of  scorching  from  the  iron 
roof,  which  had  become  heated  during  the 
day.  There  was  an  uninhabited  and  de- 
serted feeling  about  the  apartment  from  which 
man  had  been  absent  so  long,  and  in  which 


138  SILENCE 

the  wood  of  the  walls,  the  furniture  and 
other  objects  gave  out  a  faint  smell  of  growing 
decay. 

The  moonlight  fell  in  a  bright  stripe  across 
the  window  and  floor,  and  reflected  by  the 
carefully  washed  white  boards  it  illumined 
the  corners  with  a  dim  semi-light,  and  the 
clean  white  bed  with  its  two  pillows,  a  big 
one  and  a  little  one,  looked  unearthly  and 
ghostly.  Father  Ignaty  opened  the  window, 
and  the  fresh  air  poured  into  the  room  in  a 
broad  stream,  smelling  of  dust,  of  the  neigh- 
bouring river,  and  the  flowering  lime,  and 
bore  on  it  a  scarcely  audible  chorus,  appar- 
ently, of  people  rowing  a  boat,  and  singing 
as  they  rowed. 

Stepping  silently  on  his  naked  feet,  like  a 
white  ghost,  Father  Ignaty  approached  the 
empty  bed,  and  bending  his  knees  fell  face- 
down on  the  pillows,  and  embraced  them — 
the  place  where  Vera's  face  ought  to  have 
been. 

He  lay  long  so.  The  song  became  louder, 
and  then  gradually  became  inaudible  ;  but 
he  still  lay  there,  with  his  long  black  hair 
dishevelled  over  his  shoulders  and  on  the  bed. 

The  moon  had  moved  on,  and  the  room 
had  become  darker,  when  Father  Ignaty 
raised  his  head,  and  throwing  into  his  voice 
all  the  force  of  a  long  suppressed  and  long 


SILENCE  139 

unacknowledged  love,  and  listening  to  his 
words,  as  though  not  he,  but  Vera,  were 
listening  to  them,  exclaimed  : 

'  Vera,  my  daughter  !  Do  you  understand 
what  it  means,  daughter  !  Little  daughter  ! 
My  heart !  my  blood  !  my  life  !  Your  father, 
your  poor  old  father,  already  grey  and 
feeble.' 

His  shoulders  shook,  and  all  his  heavy 
frame  was  convulsed.  With  a  shudder  Father 
Ignaty  whispered  tenderly,  as  to  a  little  child  : 

'  Your  poor  old  father  asks  you.  Yes, 
Verochka,  he  entreats.  He  weeps.  He  who 
never  was  so  wont.  Your  grief,  my  little 
daughter,  your  suffering,  are  my  own.  More 
than  mine/ 

Father    Ignaty   shook    his   head. 

'  More,  Verochka.  What  is  death  to  me, 

an  old  man  ?  But  you .  If  only  you  had 

realized,  how  tender,  weak  and  timid  you 
were !  Do  you  remember  how  when  you 
pricked  your  finger  and  the  blood  came,  you 
began  to  cry.  My  little  daughter !  And 
you  do  indeed  love  me,  love  me  dearly,  I 
know.  Every  morning  you  kiss  my  hand. 
Speak,  speak  of  what  is  grieving  you — and  I 
with  these  two  hands  will  strangle  your  grief. 
They  are  still  strong,  Vera,  these  hands.' 

His  locks  shook. 

'  Speak  ! ' 


140  SILENCE 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  wall,  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  hands,  cried  : 

'  Speak.' 

But  the  chamber  was  silent,  and  from  the 
far  distance  was  borne  in  the  sound  of  the 
long  and  short  whistles  of  a  locomotive. 

Father  Ignaty,  rolling  his  distended  eyes, 
as  though  there  stood  before  him  the  frightful 
ghost  of  a  mutilated  corpse,  slowly  raised 
himself  from  his  knees,  and  with  uncertain 
movement  lifted  his  hand,  with  the  fingers 
separated  and  nervously  stretched  out,  to 
his  head.  Going  out  by  the  door,  Father 
Ignaty  sharply  whispered  the  word : 

'  Speak ! ' 

And  silence  was  the  answer  he  received. 


IV 


THE  next  day,  after  an  early  and  solitary 
dinner,  Father  Ignaty  went  to  the  cemetery 
— for  the  first  time  since  the  death  of  his 
daughter.  It  was  close,  deserted,  and  still, 
as  though  the  hot  day  were  but  an  illumined 
night ;  but  Father  Ignaty,  as  his  habit  was, 
with  an  effort  straightened  his  back,  looked 
sternly  from  side  to  side,  and  thought  that 
he  was  the  same  as  heretofore.  He  did  not 
regard  the  new,  but  terrible,  weakness  of  his 
legs,  nor  that  his  long  beard  had  grown  com- 
pletely white,  as  though  bitten  by  a  hard 
frost.  The  way  to  the  cemetery  led  through 
the  long,  straight  street,  which  sloped  gently 
upwards,  and  at  the  end  of  which  gleamed 
white  the  roof  of  the  lych-gate,  which  was 
like  a  black,  ever-open  mouth  edged  with 
gleaming  teeth. 

Vera's  grave  lay  in  the  very  depth  of  the 
cemetery,  where  the  gravelled  pathways 
ended ;  and  Father  Ignaty  had  to  wander 
for  long  on  the  narrow  tracks,  along  a  broken 

141 


142  SILENCE 

line  of  little  mounds  which  protruded  from 
the  grass,  forgotten  of  all,  deserted  of  all. 
Here  and  there  he  came  upon  monuments 
sloping  and  green  with  age,  broken-down 
railings,  and  great  heavy  stones  cast  upon 
the  ground,  and  pressing  it  with  a  sort  of 
grim  senile  malignity. 

Vera's  grave  was  next  to  one  of  these 
stones.  It  was  covered  with  new  sods, 
already  turning  yellow,  while  all  around  it 
was  green.  A  rowan  tree  was  intertwined 
with  a  maple,  and  a  widely  spreading  clump 
of  hazel  stretched  its  pliant  branches  with 
rough  furred  leaves  over  the  grave.  Sitting 
down  on  the  neighbouring  tomb,  and  sighing 
repeatedly,  Father  Ignaty  looked  round,  cast 
a  glance  at  the  cloudless  desert  sky,  in  which 
the  red-hot  disc  of  the  sun  hung  suspended 
in  perfect  immobility — and  then  only  did 
he  become  conscious  of  that  profound  still- 
ness, like  nothing  else  in  the  world,  which 
holds  sway  over  a  cemetery,  when  there  is 
not  a  breath  of  wind  to  rustle  the  dead  leaves. 
And  once  more  the  thought  came  to  Father 
Ignaty,  that  this  was  not  stillness,  but 
silence.  It  overflowed  to  the  very  brick 
walls  of  the  cemetery,  climbed  heavily  over 
them,  and  submerged  the  city.  And  its 
end  was  only  there — in  those  grey,  stubbornly, 
obstinately  silent  eyes. 


SILENCE  143 

Father  Ignaty  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
which  were  becoming  cold,  and  let  his  eyes 
fall  on  Vera's  grave.  He  gazed  long  at  the 
short  little  seared  stalks  of  grass,  which  had 
been  torn  from  the  ground  somewhere  in  the 
wide  wind-swept  fields,  and  had  failed  to  take 
root  in  the  new  soil ;  and  he  could  not  realize 
that  there,  under  that  grass,  at  a  few  feet 
from  him,  lay  Vera.  And  this  nearness 
seemed  incomprehensible,  and  imbued  his 
soul  with  a  confusion  and  strange  alarm. 
She,  of  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  think 
as  having  for  ever  disappeared  in  the  dark 
depth  of  infinity,  was  here,  close — and  it  was 
difficult  to  understand  that  nevertheless  she 
was  not,  and  never  would  be  again.  And 
it  seemed  to  Father  Ignaty  that  if  he  spoke 
some  word,  which  he  almost  felt  upon  his 
lips,  or  if  he  made  some  movement,  Vera 
would  come  forth  from  the  tomb,  and  stand 
up  as  tall  and  beautiful  as  ever.  And  that 
not  only  would  she  arise  ;  but  that  all  the 
dead,  who  could  be  felt,  so  awesome  in  their 
solemn  cold  silence,  would  rise  too. 

Father  Ignaty  took  off  his  black  wide- 
brimmed  hat,  smoothed  his  wavy  locks,  and 
said  in  a  whisper  : 

'  Vera  !  ' 

He  became  uneasy  lest  he  should  be  heard 
by  some  stranger,  and  stood  upon  the  tomb 


144  SILENCE 

and  looked  over  the  crosses.  But  there  was 
no  one  near,  and  he  repeated  aloud  : 

'  Vera  !  ' 

It  was  Father  Ignaty's  old  voice,  dry  and 
exacting,  and  it  was  strange  that  a  demand 
made  with  such  force  remained  without 
answer. 

'  Vera  !  ' 

Loud  and  persistently  the  voice  called, 
and  when  it  was  silent  for  a  moment  it  seemed 
as  though  somewhere  below  a  vague  answer 
resounded.  And  Father  Ignaty  looked  once 
more  around,  removed  his  hair  from  his  ears, 
and  laid  them  on  the  rough  prickly  sod. 

'  Vera  !     Speak  !  ' 

And  Father  Ignaty  felt  with  horror  that 
something  cold  as  the  tomb  penetrated  his 
ear,  and  froze  the  brain,  and  that  Vera  spoke 
— but  what  she  said  was  ever  the  same  long 
silence.  It  became  ever  more  and  more 
alarming  and  terrible,  and  when  Father 
Ignaty  dragged  his  head  with  an  effort  from 
the  ground,  pale  as  that  of  a  corpse,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  whole  air  trembled  and 
vibrated  with  a  resonant  silence,  as  though 
a  wild  storm  had  arisen  on  that  terrible  sea. 
The  silence  choked  him :  it  kept  rolling 
backwards  and  forwards  through  his  head 
in  icy  waves,  and  stirred  his  hair ;  it  broke 
against  his  bosom,  which  groaned  beneath 


SILENCE  145 

the  shocks.  Trembling  all  over,  casting  from 
side  to  side  quick,  nervous  glances,  he  slowly 
raised  himself,  and  strove  with  torturing 
efforts  to  straighten  his  back  and  to  restore  the 
proud  carriage  to  his  trembling  body.  And 
in  this  he  succeeded.  With  slow  delibera- 
tion he  shook  the  dust  from  his  knees,  put 
on  his  hat,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  three 
times  over  the  grave,  and  went  with  even, 
firm  gait,  and  yet  did  not  recognize  the  well- 
known  cemetery,  and  lost  his  way. 

'  Lost  my  way  !  '  he  laughed,  and  stood 
still  at  the  branching  paths. 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  then 
without  thinking  turned  to  the  left,  because 
it  was  impossible  to  stand  still  and  wait. 
The  silence  pursued  him.  It  rose  from  the 
green  graves  ;  the  grim  grey  crosses  breathed 
it ;  it  came  forth  in  thin  suffocating  streams 
from  every  pore  of  the  ground,  which  was 
sated  with  corpses.  Father  Ignaty's  steps 
became  quicker  and  quicker.  Dazed,  he  went 
round  the  same  paths  again  and  again,  he 
leapt  the  graves,  stumbled  against  the  rail- 
ings, grasped  the  prickly  tin  wreaths,  and 
the  soft  stuff  tore  to  pieces  in  his  hands. 
Only  one  thought,  that  of  getting  out,  was 
left  in  his  head.  He  rushed  from  side  to 
side,  and  at  last  ran  noiselessly,  a  tall  figure, 
almost  unrecognizable  in  his  streaming  cas- 

L.A.  I0 


146  SILENCE 

sock,  with  his  hair  floating  on  the  air.  More 
frightened  than  at  the  sight  of  a  corpse  risen 
from  the  grave,  would  have  been  any  one 
who  had  met  this  wild  figure  of  a  man  running, 
leaping,  waving  his  arms — if  he  had  recog- 
nized his  mad,  distorted  face,  and  heard  the 
dull  rattle  that  escaped  from  his  open  mouth. 

At  full  run  Father  Ignaty  jumped  out 
upon  the  little  square  at  the  end  of  which 
stood  the  low  white  mortuary  chapel.  In 
the  porch  on  a  little  bench  there  dozed  an 
old  man  who  looked  like  a  pilgrim  from  afar, 
and  near  him  two  old  beggar-women  were 
flying  at  one  another,  quarrelling  and  scolding. 

When  Father  Ignaty  reached  home,  it  was 
already  getting  dark,  and  the  lamp  was  lit  in 
Olga  Stepanovna's  room.  Without  change 
of  clothes  or  removing  his  hat,  torn  and  dusty, 
he  came  hurriedly  to  his  wife  and  fell  on  his 
knees. 

'  Mother — Olga — pity  me  !  '  he  sobbed  ; 
'  I  am  going  out  of  my  mind.' 

He  beat  his  head  against  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  sobbed  tumultuously,  painfully, 
as  a  man  does  who  never  weeps.  He  lifted 
his  head,  confident  that  in  a  moment  a 
miracle  would  be  performed,  and  that  his 
wife  would  speak,  and  pity  him. 

'  Dear  !  ' 

With  his  whole  big  body  he  stretched  out 


SILENCE  147 

towards  his  wife,  and  met  the  look  of  the 
grey  eyes.  In  them  there  was  neither  com- 
passion nor  anger.  Maybe  his  wife  forgave 
and  pitied  him,  but  in  those  eyes  there  was 
neither  pity  nor  forgiveness.  They  were 
dumb  and  silent. 

And  the  whole  desolate  house  was  silent. 


LAUGHTER 


AT  6.30  I  was  certain  that  she  would  come, 
and  I  was  desperately  happy.  My  coat 
was  fastened  only  by  the  top  button,  and 
fluttered  in  the  cold  wind ;  but  I  felt  no  cold. 
My  head  was  proudly  thrown  back,  and  my 
student's  cap  was  cocked  on  the  back  of  my 
head  ;  my  eyes  with  respect  to  the  men  they 
met  were  expressive  of  patronage  and  bold- 
ness, with  respect  to  the  women  of  a  seductive 
tenderness.  Although  she  had  been  my  only 
love  for  four  whole  days,  I  was  so  young,  and 
my  heart  was  so  rich  in  love,  that  I  could  not 
remain  perfectly  indifferent  to  other  women. 
My  steps  were  quick,  bold  and  free. 

At  6.45  my  coat  was  fastened  by  two 
buttons,  and  I  looked  only  at  the  women, 
but  no  longer  with  a  seductive  tenderness, 
but  rather  with  disgust.  I  only  wanted  one 
woman — the  others  might  go  to  the  devil ; 
they  only  confused  me,  and  with  their  seeming 

149 


150  LAUGHTER 

resemblance  to  Her  gave  to  my  movements 
an  uncertain  and  jerky  indecision. 

At  6.55  I  felt  warm. 

At  6.58  I  felt  cold. 

As  it  struck  seven  I  was  convinced  that  she 
would  not  come. 

By  8.30  I  presented  the  appearance  of  the 
most  pitiful  creature  in  the  world.  My  coat 
was  fastened  with  all  its  buttons,  collar  turned 
up,  cap  tilted  over  my  nose,  which  was  blue 
with  cold ;  my  hair  was  over  my  forehead, 
my  moustache  and  eyelashes  were  whitening 
with  rime,  and  my  teeth  gently  chattered. 
From  my  shambling  gait,  and  bowed  back, 
I  might  have  been  taken  for  a  fairly  hale  old 
man  returning  from  a  party  at  the  almshouse. 

And  She  was  the  cause  of  all  this — She  ! 

'  Oh,  the  Dev !  No,  I  won't.  Perhaps 

she  could  not  get  away,  or  she  is  ill,  or  dead. 
She's  dead  !  ' — and  I  swore. 


II 


'  EUGENIA  NIKOLAEVNA  will  be  there  to- 
night,' one  of  my  companions,  a  student, 
remarked  to  me,  without  the  slightest  arriere 
pensee.  He  could  not  know  how  that  I  had 
waited  for  her  in  the  frost  from  seven  to  half- 
past  eight. 

'  Indeed,'  I  replied,  as  in  deep  thought, 
but  within  my  soul  there  leapt  out  :  '  Oh, 
the  Dev —  -  !  '  '  There  '  meant  at  the  Polo- 
zovs'  evening  party.  Now  the  Polozovs  were 
people  with  whom  I  was  not  upon  visiting 
terms.  But  this  evening  I  would  be  there. 

'  You  fellows  !  '  I  shouted  cheerfully,  '  to- 
day is  Christmas  Day,  when  everybody 
enjoys  himself.  Let  us  do  so  too.' 

'  But  how  ?  '  one  of  them  mournfully  re- 
plied. 

'  And  where  ?  '  continued  another. 

'  We  will  dress  up,  and  go  round  to  all  the 
evening  parties,'  I  decided. 

And  these  insensate  individuals  actually 
became  cheerful.  They  shouted,  leapt,  and 

151 


152  LAUGHTER 

sang.  They  thanked  me  for  my  suggestion, 
and  counted  up  the  amount  of  '  the  ready  ' 
available.  In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  we 
had  collected  all  the  lonely,  disconsolate 
students  in  town  ;  and  when  we  had  recruited 
a  cheerful  dozen  or  so  of  leaping  devils,  we 
repaired  to  a  hairdresser's — he  was  also  a 
costumier — and  let  in  there  the  cold,  and 
youth,  and  laughter. 

I  wanted  something  sombre  and  handsome, 
with  a  shade  of  elegant  sadness  ;  so  I  re- 
quested : 

'  Give  me  the  dress  of  a  Spanish  grandee.' 

Apparently  this  grandee  had  been  very 
tall,  for  I  was  altogether  swallowed  up  in  his 
dress,  and  felt  there  as  absolutely  alone  as 
though  I  had  been  in  a  wide,  empty  hall. 
Getting  out  of  this  costume,  I  asked  for 
something  else. 

'  Would  you  like  to  be  a  clown  ?  Motley 
with  bells.' 

'  A  clown,  indeed !  '  I  exclaimed  with  con- 
tempt. 

'  Well,  then,  a  bandit.  Such  a  hat  and 
dagger ! ' 

Oh !  dagger !  Yes,  that  would  suit  my 
purpose.  But  unfortunately  the  bandit 
whose  clothes  they  gave  me  had  scarcely 
grown  to  full  stature.  Most  probably  he 
had  been  a  corrupt  youth  of  eight  years. 


LAUGHTER  153 

His  little  hat  would  not  cover  the  back  of 
my  head,  and  I  had  to  be  dragged  out  of  his 
velvet  breeks  as  out  of  a  trap.  A  page's 
dress  was  no  go  :  it  was  all  spotted  like  the 
pard.  The  monk's  cowl  was  all  in  holes. 

'  Look  sharp ;  it's  late,'  said  my  com- 
panions, who  were  already  dressed,  trying  to 
hurry  me  up. 

There  was  but  one  costume  left — that  of  a 
distinguished  Chinaman.  '  Give  me  the 
Chinaman's,'  said  I  with  a  wave  of  my  hand. 
And  they  gave  it  me.  It  was  the  devil  knows 
what !  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  costume 
itself.  I  pass  over  in  silence  those  idiotic 
flowered  boots,  which  were  too  short  for  me, 
and  reached  only  half-way  to  my  knees  ;  but 
in  the  remaining,  by  far  the  most  essential 
part,  stuck  out  like  two  incomprehensible 
adjuncts  on  either  side  of  my  feet.  I  say 
nothing  of  the  pink  rag  which  covered  my 
head  like  a  wig,  and  was  tied  by  threads  to 
my  ears,  so  that  they  protruded  and  stood 
up  like  a  bat's.  But  the  mask  ! 

It  was,  if  one  may  use  the  expression,  a  face 
in  the  abstract.  It  had  nose,  eyes,  and  mouth 
all  right  enough,  and  all  in  the  proper  places  ; 
but  there  was  nothing  human  about  it.  A 
human  being  could  not  look  so  placid — even 
in  his  coffin.  It  was  expressive  neither  of 
sorrow,  nor  cheerfulness,  nor  surprise — it 


154  LAUGHTER 

expressed  absolutely  nothing !  It  looked  at 
you  squarely,  and  placidly — and  an  uncon- 
trollable laughter  overwhelmed  you.  My 
companions  rolled  about  on  the  sofas,  sank 
impotently  down  on  the  chairs,  and  gesticu- 
lated. 

'  It  will  be  the  most  original  mask  of  the 
evening,'  they  declared. 

I  was  ready  to  weep  ;  but  no  sooner  did  I 
glance  in  the  mirror  than  I  too  was  convulsed 
with  laughter.  Yes,  it  will  be  a  most  original 
mask  ! 

'  In  no  circumstances  are  we  to  take  off 
our  masks,'  said  my  companions  on  the  way. 
'  We  will  give  our  word.' 

'  Honour  bright !  ' 


Ill 

POSITIVELY  it  was  the  most  original  mask. 
People  followed  me  in  crowds,  turned  me 
about,  jostled  me,  pinched  me.  But  when, 
harried,  I  turned  on  my  persecutors  in  anger 
— uncontrollable  laughter  seized  them.  Where- 
ever  I  went,  a  roaring  cloud  of  laughter 
encompassed  and  pressed  on  me  ;  it  moved 
together  with  me,  and  I  could  not  escape 
from  this  circle  of  mad  mirth.  Sometimes 
it  seized  even  myself,  and  I  shouted,  sang, 
and  danced  till  everything  seemed  to  go 
round  before  me,  as  if  I  was  drunk.  But 
how  remote  everything  was  from  me  !  And 
how  solitary  was  I  under  that  mask  !  At  last 
they  left  me  in  peace.  With  anger  and  fear, 
with  malice  and  tenderness  intermingling, 
I  looked  at  her. 

'  Tis  I.' 

Her  long  eyelashes  were  lifted  slowly  in 
surprise,  and  a  whole  sheaf  of  black  rays 
flashed  upon  me,  and  a  laugh,  resonant, 
joyous,  bright  as  the  spring  sunshine — a  laugh 
answered  me. 

155 


156  LAUGHTER 

'  Yes,  it  is  I  ;    I,  I  say/  I  insisted  with  a 
smile.     '  Why  did  you  not  come  this  even- 
ing ?  ' 
'But  she  only  laughed,  laughed  joyously. 

'  I  suffered  so  much  ;  I  felt  so  hurt/  said 
I,  imploring  an  answer. 

But  she  only  laughed.  The  black  sheen  of 
her  eyes  was  extinguished,  and  still  more 
brightly  her  smile  lit  up.  It  was  the  sun 
indeed,  but  burning,  pitiless,  cruel. 

'  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  ' 

'  Is  it  really  you  ?  "  said  she,  restraining 
herself.  '  How  comical  you  are  !  ' 

My  shoulders  were  bowed,  and  my  head 
hung  down — such  despair  was  there  in  my 
pose.  And  while  she,  with  the  expiring 
afterglow  of  the  smile  upon  her  face,  looked 
at  the  happy  young  couples  that  hurried  by 
us,  I  said :  '  It's  not  nice  to  laugh.  Do 
you  not  feel  that  there  is  a  living,  suffering 
face  behind  my  ridiculous  mask — and  can't 
you  see  that  it  was  only  for  the  opportunity 
it  gave  me  of  seeing  you  that  I  put  it  on  ? 
You  gave  me  reason  to  hope  for  your  love, 
and  then  so  quickly,  so  cruelly  deprived  me 
of  it.  Why  did  you  not  come  ?  ' 

With  a  protest  on  her  tender,  smiling  lips, 
she  turned  sharply  to  me,  and  a  cruel  laugh 
utterly  overwhelmed  her.  Choking,  almost 
weeping,  covering  her  face  with  a  fragrant 


LAUGHTER  157 

lace  handkerchief,  she  brought  out  with  diffi- 
culty :  '  Look  at  yourself  in  the  mirror 
behind.  Oh,  how  droll  you  are  !  ' 

Contracting  my  brows,  clenching  my  teeth 
with  pain,  with  a  face  grown  cold,  from  which 
all  the  blood  had  fled,  I  looked  at  the  mirror. 
There  gazed  out  at  me  an  idiotically  placid, 
stolidly  complacent,  inhumanly  immovable 
face.  And  I  burst  into  an  uncontrollable 
fit  of  laughter.  And  with  the  laughter  not 
yet  subsided,  but  already  with  the  trembling 
of  rising  anger,  with  the  madness  of  despair, 
I  said — nay,  almost  shouted  : 

'  You  ought  not  to  laugh  !  ' 

And  when  she  was  quiet  again  I  went  on 
speaking  in  a  whisper  of  my  love.  I  had 
never  spoken  so  well,  for  I  had  never  loved  so 
strongly.  I  spoke  of  the  tortures  of  expecta- 
tion, of  the  venomous  tears  of  mad  jealousy 
and  grief,  of  my  own  soul  which  was  all  love. 
And  I  saw  how  her  drooping  eyelashes  cast 
thick  dark  shadow  over  her  blanched  cheeks. 
I  saw  how  across  their  dull  pallor  the  fire, 
bursting  into  flame,  threw  a  red  reflection, 
and  how  her  whole  pliant  body  involuntarily 
bent  towards  me. 

She  was  dressed  as  the  Goddess  of  Night, 
and  was  all  mysterious,  clad  in  a  black,  mist- 
like  face,  which  twinkled  with  stars  of  brilli- 
ants/ -She  was  beautiful  as  a  forgotten  dream 


158  LAUGHTER 

of  far-off  childhood.  As  I  spoke  my  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  my  heart  beat  with 
gladness.  And  I  perceived,  I  perceived  at 
last,  how  a  tender,  piteous  smile  parted 
her  lips,  and  her  eyelashes  were  lifted  all 
a-tremble.  Slowly,  timorously,  but  with 
infinite  confidence,  she  turned  her  head 
towards  me,  and — 

And  such  a  shriek  of  laughter  I  never 
heard ! 

'  No,  no,,  I  can't,'  she  almost  groaned,  and 
throwing  back  her  head,  she  burst  into  a 
resonant  cascade  of  laughter. 

Oh,  if  but  for  a  moment  I  could  have  had 
a  human  face  !  I  bit  my  lips,  tears  rolled  over 
my  heated  face  ;  but  it — that  idiotic  mask, 
on  which  everything  was  in  its  right  place, 
nose,  eyes,  and  lips — looked  with  a  com- 
placency stolidly  horrible  in  its  absurdity. 
And  when  I  went  out,  swaying  on  my  flow- 
ered feet,  it  was  long  before  I  got  out  of 
reach  of  that  ringing  laugh.  It  was  as 
though  a  silvery  stream  of  water  were  falling 
from  an  immense  height,  and  breaking  in 
cheerful  song  upon  the  hard  rock. 


IV 

SCATTERED  over  the  whole  sleeping  street 
and  rousing  the  stillness  of  the  night  with 
our  lusty,  excited  voices,  we  walked  home. 
A  companion  said  to  me  : 

'  You  have  had  a  colossal'success.     I  never 

saw  people  laugh  so Halloa  !  what  are 

you  up  to  ?  Why  are  you  tearing  your 
mask  ?  I  say,  you  fellows,  he's  gone  mad  ! 
Look,  he's  tearing  his  costume  to  pieces  ! 
By  Jove !  he's  actually  crying.' 


159 


THE  FRIEND 

WHEN  late  at  night  he  rang  at  his  own  door, 
the  first  sound  after  that  of  the  bell  was  a 
resonant  dog's  bark,  in  which  might  be  dis- 
tinguished both  fear  that  it  might  have  been 
a  stranger,  and  joy  that  it  was  his  own  master, 
who  had  arrived. 

Then  there  followed  the  squish-squash  of 
goloshes,  and  the  squeak  of  the  key  taken  out 
of  the  lock. 

He  came  in,  and  taking  off  his  wrappers  in 
the  dark,  was  conscious  of  a  silent  female 
figure  close  by,  while  the  nails  of  a  dog 
caressingly  scratched  at  his  knees,  and  a  hot 
tongue  licked  his  chilled  hand. 

'  Well,  what  is  it  ?  '  a  sleepy  voice  asked  in 
a  tone  of  perfunctory  interest. 

'  Nothing  !  I'm  tired,'  curtly  replied  Vladi- 
mir Mikhailovich,  and  went  to  his  own  room. 
The  dog  followed  him,  his  nails  striking 
sharply  on  the  waxed  floor,  and  jumped  on  to 
the  bed.  When  the  light  of  the  lamp  which  he 
lit  filled  the  room,  his  glance  met  the  steady 

L.A.  161  II 


162  THE  FRIEND 

gaze  of  the  dog's  black  eyes.  They  seemed  to 
say  :  '  Come  now,  pet  me.'  And  to  make  the 
request  better  understood  the  dog  stretched 
out  his  fore-paws,  and  laid  his  head  side- 
ways upon  them,  while  his  hinder  quarters 
wriggled  comically,  and  his  tail  kept  twirling 
round  like  the  handle  of  a  barrel-organ. 

'  My  only  friend  !  '  said  Vladimir  Mikhailo- 
vich,  as  he  stroked  the  black,  glossy  coat.  As 
though  from  excess  of  [feeling  the  dog  turned 
on  his  back,  showed  his  white  teeth,  and 
growled  gently,  joyful  and  excited.  But 
Vladimir  Mikhailovich  sighed,  petted  the  dog, 
and  thought  to  himself,  how  that  there  was 
no  one  else  in  the  world  that  would  ever  love 
him. 

If  he  happened  to  return  home  early,  and 
not  tired  out  with  work,  he  would  sit  down  to 
write,  and  the  dog  curled  himself  into  a  ball 
on  a  chair  somewhere  near  to  him,  opened  one 
black  eye  now  and  again,  and  sleepily  wagged 
his  tail.  And  when  excited  by  the  process  of 
authorship,  tortured  by  the  sufferings  of  his 
own  heroes,  and  choking  with  a  plethora  of 
thoughts  and  mental  pictures,  he  walked 
about  in  his  room,  and  smoked  cigarette  after 
cigarette,  the  dog  would  follow  him  with  an 
anxious  look,  and  wag  his  tail  more  vigor- 
ously than  ever. 

'  Shall  we  become  famous,  you  and  I,  Vas- 


THE  FRIEND  163 

yuk  ?  '  he  would  inquire  of  the  dog,  who 
would  wag  his  tail  in  affirmation.  '  We'll  eat 
liver  then,  is  that  right  ?  ' 

'  Right  !  '  the  dog  would  reply,  stretching 
himself  luxuriously.  He  was  very  fond  of 
liver. 

Vladimir  Mikhailovich  often  had  visitors. 
Then  his  aunt,  with  whom  he  lived,  would 
borrow  china  from  her  neighbour,  and  give 
them  tea,  setting  on  samovar  after  samovar. 
She  would  go  and  buy  vodka  and  sausages, 
and  sigh  heavily  as  she  drew  out  from  the 
bottom  of  her  pocket  a  greasy  rouble-note.  In 
the  room  with  its  smoke-laden  atmosphere 
loud  voices  resounded.  They  quarrelled  and 
laughed,  said  droll  and  sharp  things,  com- 
plained of  their  fate  and  envied  one  another. 
They  advised  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  to  give 
up  literature  and  take  to  some  more  lucrative 
occupation.  Some  said  that  he  ought  to 
consult  a  doctor,  others  clinked  glasses  with 
him,  while  they  bewailed  the  injury  that 
vodka  was  doing  to  his  health.  He  was  so 
sickly,  so  continually  nervous.  This  was  why 
he  had  such  fits  of  depression,  and  why  he 
demanded  of  life  the  impossible.  All  ad- 
dressed him  as  '  thou,'  and  their  voices  ex- 
pressed their  interest  in  him,  and  in  the 
friendliest  manner,  they  would  invite  him  to 
drive  beyond  the  city  with  them,  and  prolong 


164  THE  FRIEND 

the  conviviality.  And  when  he  drove  off 
merry,  making  more  noise  than  the  others, 
and  laughing  at  nothing,  there  followed  him 
two  pairs  of  eyes  :  the  grey  eyes  of  his  aunt, 
angry  and  reproachful,  and  the  anxiously 
caressing  black  eyes  of  the  dog. 

He  did  not  remember  what  he  did,  when  he 
had  been  drinking,  and  returned  home  in  the 
morning  bespattered  with  mud  and  marl,  and 
without  his  hat. 

They  would  tell  him  afterwards  how  in  his 
cups  he  had  insulted  his  friends  ;  at  home  had 
reviled  his  Aunt,  who  had  wept  and  said  she 
could  not  bear  such  a  life  any  longer,  but  must 
do  away  with  herself ;  and  how  he  had  tor- 
tured his  dog,  when  he  refused  to  come  to 
him  and  be  petted ;  and  that  when,  terrified 
and  trembling,  he  showed  his  teeth,  he  had 
beaten  him  with  a  strap. 

And  the  following  day  all  would  have 
finished  their  day's  work  before  he  woke  up 
sick  and  miserable.  His  heart  would  beat  un- 
evenly and  feel  faint,  filling  him  with  dread 
of  an  early  death,  while  his  hands  trembled. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  in  the  kitchen, 
his  Aunt  would  stump  about,  the  sound  of 
her  steps  re-echoing  through  the  cold,  empty 
flat.  She  would  not  speak  to  Vladimir  Mik- 
hailovich,  but  austere  and  unforgiving  gave 
him  water  in  silence.  And  he  too  would  keep 


THE  FRIEND  165 

silence,  looking  at  the  ceiling,  at  a  particular 
stain  long  known  to  him,  and  thinking  how  he 
was  wasting  his  life,  and  that  he  would  never 
gain  fame  and  happiness.  He  confessed  to 
himself  that  he  was  weak,  worthless  and  terri- 
bly lonesome.  The  boundless  world  seethed 
with  moving  human  beings,  and  yet  there  was 
not  one  single  soul  who  would  come  to  him 
and  share  his  pains — madly  arrogant  thoughts 
of  fame,  coupled  with  a  deadly  consciousness 
of  worthlessness.  With  trembling,  bungling 
hand  he  would  grip  his  forehead,  and  press  his 
eyelids,  but  however  firmly  he  pressed,  still 
the  tears  would  ooze  through,  and  creep 
down  over  his  cheeks,  which  still  retained  the 
scent  of  purchased  kisses.  And  when  he 
dropped  his  hand,  it  would  fall  upon  another 
forehead,  hairy  and  smooth,  and  his  gaze, 
confused  with  tears,  would  meet  the  caressing 
black  eyes  of  the  dog,  and  his  ears  would  catch 
his  soft  sighs.  And  touched  and  comforted 
he  would  whisper  : 

'  My  friend,  my  only  friend  !  ' 

When  he  recovered,  his  friends  used  to 
come  to  him,  and  softly  reprove  him,  giving 
advice  and  speaking  of  the  evils  of  drink. 
But  some  of  his  friends,  whom  he  had  in- 
sulted when  drunk,  ceased  to  notice  him  in 
the  streets.  They  understood  that  he  did 
not  wish  them  any  harm,  but  they  preferred 


166  THE  FRIEND 

not  to  run  the  risk  of  further  unpleasantnesses. 
Thus  he  spent  the  oppressive  fume-laden 
nights  and  the  sternly  avenging  sun-lit  days 
at  war  with  himself,  his  obscurity  and  lone- 
liness. And  ofttimes  the  steps  of  his  Aunt 
resounded  through  the  deserted  flat,  while 
from  the  bed  was  heard  a  whisper,  which  re- 
sembled a  sigh  : 

'  My  friend,  my  only  friend  !  ' 

Eventually  his  illusive  fame  came,  came 
unguessed  at,  and  unexpected,  and  filled  the 
empty  apartments  with  light  and  life.  His 
Aunt's  steps  were  drowned  in  the  tramp  of 
friendly  footsteps,  and  the  spectre  of  loneli- 
ness vanished,  and  the  soft  whisper  ceased. 
Vodka,  too,  disappeared,  that  ominous  com- 
panion of  the  solitary,  and  Vladimir  Mik- 
hailovich  ceased  to  insult  his  Aunt  and  his 
friends. 

The  dog  too  was  glad.  Still  louder  be- 
came his  bark  on  the  occasion  of  their  belated 
meetings,  when  his  master,  his  only  friend, 
came  home  kind,  happy,  and  laughing.  The 
dog  himself  learnt  to  smile  ;  his  upper  lip 
would  be  drawn  up  exposing  his  white  teeth, 
and  his  nose  would  pucker  up  into  funny  little 
wrinkles.  Happy  and  frolicsome  he  began  to 
play  ;  he  would  seize  hold  of  things  and  make 
as  though  he  would  carry  them  away,  and 
when  his  master  stretched  out  his  hands  to 


THE  FRIEND  167 

catch  him,  he  would  let  him  approach  to 
within  a  stride  of  him,  and  then  run  away 
again,  while  his  black  eyes  sparkled  with 
artfulness. 

Sometimes  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  would 
point  to  his  Aunt  and  say,  '  Bite  her  !  '  and 
the  dog  would  fly  at  her  in  feigned  anger, 
shake  her  petticoat,  and  then,  out  of  breath, 
glance  sideways  at  his  friend  with  his  roguish 
black  eyes.  The  Aunt's  thin  lips  would  be 
contorted  into  an  austere  smile,  and  stroking 
the  dog,  now  tired  out  with  play,  on  his 
glossy  head,  would  say  : 

'  Sensible  dog  ! — only  he  does  not  like 
soup.' 

And  at  night,  when  Vladimir  Mikhailovich 
was  at  work,  and  only  the  jarring  of  the  win- 
dow-panes, caused  by  the  street  traffic,  broke 
the  stillness,  the  dog  would  doze  near  to  him 
on  the  alert,  and  wake  at  his  slightest  move- 
ment. 

'  What,  laddie,  would  you  like  some  liver  ?  ' 
he  would  ask. 

'  Yes,'  would  Vasyuk  reply,  wagging  his 
tail  in  the  affirmative. 

'  Well,  wait  a  bit,  I'll  buy  you  some.  What 
do  you  want  ?  To  be  petted  ?  I  have  no 
time  now,  I  airi  busy  ;  go  to  sleep,  laddie  !  ' 

Every  night  he  asked  the  dog  about  liver, 
but  he  continaully  forgot  to  buy  it,  because 


i68  THE  FRIEND 

his  head  was  full  of  plans  for  a  new  work,  and 
of  thoughts  of  a  woman  he  was  in  love  with. 
Only  once  did  he  remember  the  liver.  It  was 
in  the  evening ;  he  was  passing  a  butcher's 
shop,  arm  in  arm  with  a  pretty  woman  who 
pressed  her  shoulder  close  against  his.  He 
jokingly  told  her  about  his  dog,  and  praised 
his  sense  and  intelligence.  Showing  off  some- 
what, he  went  on  to  tell  her  that  there  were 
terrible,  distressing  moments,  when  he  re- 
garded his  dog  as  his  only  friend,  and  laugh- 
ingly related  his  promise  to  buy  liver  for  his 
friend,  when  he  should  have  attained  happi- 
ness— and  he  pressed  the  girl's  hand  closer 
to  him. 

'  You  clever  fellow/  cried  she,  laughing ; 
'  you  would  make  even  stones  speak.  But  I 
don't  like  dogs  at  all :  they  are  so  apt  to 
carry  infection.' 

Vladimir  Mikhailovich  agreed  that  that  was 
the  case,  and  held  his  tongue  with  regard  to 
his  habit  of  sometimes  kissing  that  black 
shiny  muzzle. 

One  day,  Vasyuk  played  more  than  usual 
during  the  daytime,  but  in  the  evening,  when 
Vladimir  Mikhailovich  came  home,  he  did 
not  turn  up  to  meet  him,  and  his  Aunt  said 
that  the  dog  was  ill.  Vladimir  Mikhailovich 
was  alarmed,  and  went  into  the  kitchen, 
where  the  dog  lay  on  a  bed  of  soft  litter.  His 


THE  FRIEND  169 

nose  was  dry  and  hot,  and  his  eyes  were 
troubled.  He  made  a  slight  movement  of  his 
tail,  and  looked  piteously  at  his  friend. 

'  What  is  it,  boy  ;   ill  ?     My  poor  fellow  !  ' 

The  tail  made  a  feeble  motion,  and  the 
black  eyes  became  moist. 

'  Lie  still,  then  ;    lie  still !  ' 

'  He  will  have  to  be  taken  to  the  veterinary  : 
but  to-morrow,  I  have  no  time.  But  it  will 
pass  off — '  thought  Vladimir  Mikhailovich, 
and  he  forgot  the  dog  in  thinking  of  the 
happiness  the  pretty  girl  might  give  him. 
All  the  next  day  he  was  away  from  home. 
When  he  returned  his  hand  fumbled  long  in 
searching  for  the  bell-handle,  and  when  it 
was  found  hesitated  long  as  to  what  to  do  with 
the  wooden  thing. 

'  Ah,  yes  !  I  must  ring,'  he  laughed,  and 
then  began  singing,  '  Open — ye  !  ' 

The  bell  gave  a  solitary  ring,  goloshes 
squish-squashed,  and  the  key  squeaked  as 
it  was  taken  out  of  the  lock. 

Vladimir  Mikhailovich,  still  humming, 
passed  through  into  his  room,  and  walked 
about  a  long  time  before  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  ought  to  light  the  lamp.  Then  he  un- 
dressed, but  for  a  long  time  he  kept  in  his  hands 
the  boots  he  had  taken  off,  and  looked  at  them 
as  though  they  were  the  pretty  girl,  who  had 
only  that  day  said  so  simply  and  sincerely, 


170  THE  FRIEND 

'  Yes  !  I  love  you  !  '  And  when  he  had  got 
into  bed,  he  still  saw  her  speaking  face,  until 
side  by  side  with  it  there  appeared  the  black 
shiny  muzzle  of  his  dog,  and  with  a  sharp  pain 
there  crept  into  his  heart  the  question  : 

'  But  where  is  Vasyuk  ?  ' 

He  became  ashamed  of  having  forgotten 
the  sick  dog — but  not  particularly  so  :  for 
had  not  Vasyuk  been  ill  several  times  before, 
and  nothing  had  come  of  it.  But  to-morrow 
the  veterinary  must  be  sent  for.  At  all  events 
he  need  not  think  of  the  dog,  and  of  his  own 
ingratitude — that  would  do  no  good,  and 
would  only  diminish  his  own  happiness. 

When  morning  came  the  dog  became  worse. 
He  was  troubled  with  nausea,  and  being  a 
well-mannered  dog,  he  rose  with  difficulty 
from  his  litter,  and  went  to  the  courtyard, 
staggering  like  a  drunken  man.  His  little 
black  body  was  sleek  as  ever,  but  his  head 
hung  feebly,  and  his  eyes,  which  now  looked 
grey,  gazed  in  mournful  surprise. 

At  first  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  himself, 
with  the  help  of  his  Aunt,  opened  wide  the 
dog's  mouth,  with  its  yellowing  gums,  and 
poured  in  medicine  :  but  the  dog  was  in  such 
pain  and  suffered  so,  that  it  became  too  dis- 
tressing to  him  to  look  at  him,  and  he  left 
him  to  the  care  of  his  Aunt.  And  when  the 
dog's  feeble,  helpless  moan  penetrated  through 


THE  FRIEND  171 

the  wall,  he  stuffed  his  fingers  into  his  ears, 
and  was  surprised  at  the  extent  of  his  love 
for  this  poor  dog. 

In  the  evening  he  went  out.  Before  doing 
so  he  gave  a  look  in  at  the  kitchen.  His 
Aunt  was  on  her  knees  stroking  the  hot, 
trembling  head  with  her  dry  hand. 

With  his  legs  stretched  out  like  sticks,  the 
dog  lay  heavy  and  motionless,  and  only  by 
putting  one's  ear  down  close  to  his  muzzle 
could  one  catch  the  low,  frequent  moans. 

His  eyes,  now  quite  grey,  fixed  themselves 
on  his  master  as  he  came  in,  and  when  he 
carefully  passed  his  hand  over  the  dog's  fore- 
head, his  groans  became  clearer  and  more 
piteous. 

'  What,  laddie,  are  you  so  bad  ?  But  wait 
a  bit,  when  you  are  well  I  will  buy  you  some 
liver.' 

'  I'll  make  him  eat  soup  !  '  jokingly  threat- 
ened the  Aunt. 

The  dog  closed  his  eyes,  and  Vladimir 
Mikhailovich  with  a  forced  joke  went  out 
in  haste  ;  and  when  he  got  into  the  street  he 
hired  a  cab,  since  he  was  afraid  of  being  late 
at  the  rendezvous  with  Natalya  Lavrenty- 
evna. 

That  autumn's  evening  the  air  was  so  fresh 
and  pure,  and  so  many  stars  twinkled  in  the 
dark  sky  !  They  kept  falling,  leaving  behind 


172  THE  FRIEND 

them  a  fiery  track,  and  burst  kindling  with  a 
bluish  light  a  pretty  girl's  face,  and  were 
reflected  in  her  dark  eyes — as  though  a  glow- 
worm had  appeared  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep 
dark  well.  And  greedy  lips  noiselessly  kissed 
those  eyes,  those  lips  fresh  as  the  night  air, 
and  those  cool  cheeks.  Voices  exultant,  and 
trembling  with  love,  whispered,  prattling  of 
joy  and  life. 

When  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  drove  up  to  his 
house,  he  remembered  the  dog,  and  his 
breast  ached  with  a  dark  foreboding. 

When  his  Aunt  opened  the  door,  he  asked  : 

'  Well,  how's  Vasyuk  ?  ' 

'  Dead.  He  died  about  an  hour  after  you 
left.' 

The  dead  dog  had  been  already  removed 
to  some  outhouse,  and  the  litter  bed  cleared 
away.  But  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  did  not 
even  wish  to  see  the  body ;  it  would  be  too 
distressing  a  sight.  When  he  lay  down  in 
bed,  and  all  noises  were  stilled  in  the  empty 
flat,  he  began  to  weep  restrainedly.  His 
lips  puckered  up  silently,  and  tears  forced 
their  way  through  his  closed  eyelids,  and 
rolled  quickly  down  on  to  his  bosom.  He 
was  ashamed  that  he  was  kissing  a  woman  at 
the  very  moment  when  he,  who  had  been  his 
friend,  lay  a-dying  on  the  floor  alone.  And  he 
dreaded  what  his  Aunt  would  think  of  him, 


THE   FRIEND  173 

a  serious  man,  if  she  heard  that  he  had  been 
crying  about  a  dog. 

Much  time  had  elapsed  since  these  events. 
Mysterious,  outrageous  fame  had  left  Vladi- 
mir Mikhailovich  just  as  it  had  come  to  him. 
He  had  disappointed  the  hopes  that  had  been 
built  on  him,  and  all  were  angry  at  this  dis- 
appointment, and  avenged  themselves  on 
him  by  exasperating  remarks  and  cold  jeers. 
And  then  they  had  shut  down  on  him  dead, 
heavy  oblivion,  like  the  lid  of  a  coffin. 

The  young  woman  had  dropped  him.  She 
too  considered  herself  taken  in. 

The  oppressive  fume-laden  nights,  and  the 
pitilessly  vengeful  sun-lit  days,  went  by  :  and 
frequently,  more  frequently  than  formerly, 
the  Aunt's  steps  resounded  through  the  empty 
flat,  while  he  lay  on  his  bed  looking  at  the 
well-known  stain  on  the  ceiling,  and  whis- 
pered : 

'  My  friend,  my  friend,  my  only  friend  !  ' 

And  his  trembling  hand  fell  feebly  on  an 
empty  place. 


IN   THE    BASEMENT 


HE  drank  hard,  lost  his  work  and  his  ac- 
quaintances, and  took  up  his  abode  in  a  cellar 
in  the  company  of  thieves  and  unfortunates, 
living  on  the  last  things  he  had. 

His  was  a  sickly,  anaemic  body,  worn  out 
with  work,  eaten  up  by  sufferings  and  vodka. 
Death  was  already  on  the  watch  for  him,  like 
a  grey  bird-of-prey  blind  in  the  sunshine, 
sharp-eyed  in  the  black  night.  By  day  death 
hid  itself  in  the  dark  corners,  but  at  night  it 
took  its  seat  noiselessly  by  his  bedside,  and 
sat  long,  till  the  very  dawn,  and  was  quiet, 
patient,  and  persistent.  When  at  the  first 
streak  of  light  he  put  out  his  pale  head  from 
under  the  blankets,  his  eyes  gleaming  like 
those  of  a  hunted  wild  animal,  the  room  was 
already  empty.  But  he  did  not  trust  this 
deceptive  emptiness,  which  others  believe  in. 
He  suspiciously  looked  round  into  all  the 
corners  ;  with  crafty  suddenness  he  cast  a 

175 


176  IN  THE   BASEMENT 

glance  behind  his  back,  and  then  leaning 
upon  his  elbows  he  gazed  intently  before  him 
into  the  melting  darkness  of  the  departing 
night.  And  then  he  saw  something,  such  as 
ordinary  people  do  not  see  :  the  rocking  of  a 
monster  grey  body,  shapeless,  terrible.  It 
was  transparent,  embraced  all  things,  and 
objects  were  seen  in  it  as  behind  a  glass  wall. 
But  now  he  feared  it  not ;  and  it  departed  until 
the  next  night,  leaving  behind  it  a  cold  im- 
pression. 

For  a  short  time  he  was  wrapped  in  ob- 
livion, and  terrible,  extraordinary  dreams 
came  to  him.  He  saw  a  white  room,  with 
white  floor  and  walls,  illumined  by  a  bright 
white  light,  and  a  black  serpent  which  was 
creeping  away  under  the  door  with  a  gentle 
rustling-like  laughter.  Pressing  its  sharp  flat 
head  to  the  floor,  it  wriggled  and  quickly 
glided  away,  and  was  lost  somewhere  or 
other,  and  then  again  its  black  flattened  nose 
appeared  through  a  crevice  under  the  door, 
and  its  body  drew  itself  out  in  a  black  ribbon 
— and  so  again  and  again.  Once  in  his 
sleep  he  dreamed  of  something  pleasant,  and 
laughed,  but  the  sound  seemed  strange,  and 
more  like  a  suppressed  sob — it  was  terrible  to 
hear  it — his  soul  somewhere  in  the  unknown 
depths  laughing,  or  perhaps  weeping,  while 
the  body  lay  motionless  as  the  dead. 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  177 

By  degrees  the  sounds  of  nascent  day  began 
to  invade  his  consciousness  :  the  indistinct 
talk  of  passers-by,  the  distant  squeaking  of  a 
door,  the  swish  of  the  dvornik's  broom  as  he 
brushed  away  the  snow  from  the  window-sill 
— all  the  undefined  bustle  of  a  great  city 
awakening.  And  then  there  came  upon  him 
the  most  horrible,  mercilessly  clear  conscious- 
ness that  a  new  day  had  arrived,  and  that 
he  would  soon  have  to  get  up,  in  order  to 
struggle  for  life  without  any  hope  of  victory. 

One  must  live. 

He  turned  his  back  to  the  light,  threw  the 
blanket  over  his  head,  so  that  not  the  min- 
utest ray  might  penetrate  to  his  eyes,  squeezed 
himself  together  into  a  small  ball,  drawing 
his  legs  up  to  his  very  chin,  and  so  lay  motion- 
less, dreading  to  stir  and  to  stretch  out  his 
legs.  A  whole  mountain  of  clothes  lay  upon 
him  as  a  protection  against  the  cold  of  the 
basement,  but  he  did  not  feel  their  weight, 
and  his  body  remained  cold.  And  at  every 
sound  speaking  of  life  he  seemed  to  himself 
to  be  monstrous  and  unveiled,  and  he  hugged 
himself  together  all  the  tighter,  and  silently 
groaned — neither  with  voice  nor  in  thought 
— since  he  feared  now  his  own  voice  and  his 
own  thoughts.  He  prayed  to  some  one  that 
the  day  might  not  come,  so  that  he  might 
always  lie  under  the  heap  of  rags,  without 

L.A.  12 


178  IN  THE   BASEMENT 

movement  or  thought,  and  he  concentrated 
his  whole  will  to  keep  back  the  coming  day, 
and  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was  still 
night.  And  more  than  anything  in  the  world 
he  wished  that  some  one  from  behind  would 
put  a  revolver  to  the  back  of  his  head,  just 
at  the  place  where  there  is  a  cavity,  and  blow 
his  brains  out. 

But  daylight  unfolded,  broad,  irresistible, 
calling  forcibly  to  life,  and  all  the  world  be- 
gan to  move,  to  talk,  to  work,  to  think.  The 
first  in  the  basement  to  wake  was  the  land- 
lady, old  Matryona.  She  got  up  from  the  side 
of  her  twenty-five-year-old  lover,  and  began  to 
stamp  about  the  kitchen,  clatter  with  the 
buckets,  and  busy  herself  about  something 
close  to  Khinyakov's  very  door.  He  felt 
her  approach,  and  lay  quiet,  determined  not 
to  answer  if  she  called  him.  But  she  kept 
silence,  and  went  away  somewhere.  In  the 
course  of  an  hour  or  two  the  two  other  lodgers 
woke  up,  an  unfortunate  named  Dunyasha, 
and  the  old  woman's  lover  Abram  Petrovich. 
He  was  so  called  in  spite  of  his  youth  out  of 
respect,  because  he  was  a  daring  and  skilful 
thief,  and  something  else  besides,  which  was 
guessed  at,  but  not  spoken  about. 

The  waking  up  of  these  terrified  Khinyakov 
more  than  anything,  since  they  had  a  hold  on 
him,  and  the  right  to  come  in  and  sit  on  his 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  179 

bed,  to  touch  him,  and  recall  him  to  thought 
and  speech.  He  had  become  intimate  with 
Dunyasha  one  day  when  he  was  drunk,  and 
had  promised  her  marriage,  and  although  she 
had  laughed  and  slapped  him  on  the  back, 
she  sincerely  considered  him  as  her  lover, 
and  patronized  him,  although  she  was  herself 
a  stupid,  dirty,  unwashed  slut,  who  had  spent 
many  a  night  at  the  police-station.  With 
Abram  Petrovich  he  had  only  the  day  before 
yesterday  been  drinking,  and  they  had  kissed 
one  another  and  sworn  eternal  friendship. 

When  the  fresh  loud  voice  of  Abram  Petro- 
vich and  his  quick  steps  resounded  near  the 
door,  Khinyakov's  heart's  blood  curdled  with 
fear  and  suspense,  and  he  could  not  help 
groaning  aloud,  and  then  was  all  the  more 
frightened.  In  one  distinct  picture  that  drink- 
ing-bout passed  before  him  :  how  they  had  sat 
in  some  dark  tavern  or  other,  illumined  by  a 
single  lamp,  amid  dark  people  who  kept 
whispering  together  about  something,  while 
they  themselves  also  whispered  together. 
Abram  Petrovich  was  pale  and  excited,  and 
complained  of  the  hardships  of  a  thief's  life  ; 
for  some  reason  or  other  he  had  bared  his  arms 
and  allowed  him  to  feel  the  badly-mended 
bones  of  his  once  broken  arm,  and  Khinyakov 
had  kissed  him  and  said  : 

'  I  love  thieves,  they  are  so  bold,'  and  pro- 


i8o  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

posed  to  him  that  they  should  drink  to  '  bro- 
therhood,' although  they  had  for  long  been 
on  quite  intimate  terms. 

'  And  I  love  you,  because  you  are  educated, 
and  understand  us  so  well/  replied  Abram 
Petrovich. 

'  Look  again  at  my  arm ;  here  it  is, 
eh?' 

And  again  the  white  arm  had  passed  be- 
fore his  eyes,  seeming  to  be  sorry  for  its  own 
whiteness,  and  suddenly  realizing  something 
(which  he  did  not  now  remember  or  under- 
stand), he  had  kissed  that  arm,  and  Abram 
Petrovich  had  proudly  cried  : 

'  Indeed,  brother,  death  before  surren- 
der !' 

And  then  something  dirty  whirling  round 
and  round,  howls,  whistles,  and  jumping 
lights.  Then  he  had  felt  cheerful,  but  now 
when  death  was  hiding  in  the  corners,  and 
when  day  was  rushing  in  upon  him  from  every 
direction  with  the  inexorable  necessity  to 
live  and  do  something,  to  struggle  after  some- 
thing and  ask  for  something — he  felt  tortured 
and  inexpressibly  frightened. 

'  Are  you  asleep,  sir  ?  '  Abram  Petrovich 
inquired  sarcastically  through  the  door,  and 
receiving  no  answer,  added  : 

'  Well,  then,  sleep  away  ;   devil  take  you  !  ' 

Many  acquaintances  visited  Abram  Petro- 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  181 

vich,  and  throughout  the  day  the  door 
squeaked  on  its  hinges,  and  bass  voices  were 
to  be  heard.  And  it  seemed  to  Khinyakov  at 
every  sound  that  they  were  coming  for  him, 
and  he  buried  himself  the  deeper  in  his  bed- 
clothes, and  listened  long  to  catch  to  whom 
the  voice  belonged.  He  waited  and  waited 
in  agony,  trembling  all  over  his  body,  al- 
though there  was  no  one  in  the  whole  world 
who  would  come  to  fetch  him. 

He  had  once  had  a  wife — long  ago — but 
she  was  dead.  Still  further  back  in  the  past 
he  had  had  brothers  and  sisters,  and  still 
earlier — something  indistinct  and  beautiful, 
which  he  called  Mother.  All  these  were 
dead,  or  possibly  some  one  of  them  might  be 
still  alive,  only  so  lost  in  the  wide,  wide 
world,  that  he  was  as  though  dead.  And  he 
himself  would  soon  be  dead  too — he  knew  it. 
When  he  should  get  up  to-day  his  legs  would 
tremble  and  give  way  under  him,  and  his 
hands  would  make  uncertain  strange  motions 
— and  this  was  death.  But  meanwhile  he 
must  needs  live,  and  that  is  such  a  serious 
task  for  a  man  who  has  neither  money, 
health,  nor  will,  that  Khinyakov  was  seized 
with  despair.  He  threw  off  his  blanket, 
clasped  his  hands,  and  breathed  out  into  the 
void  such  prolonged  groans,  that  they  seemed 
to  proceed  from  a  thousand  suffering  breasts, 


i82  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

therefore  was  it  that  they  were  so  full,  brim- 
ming over  with  insupportable  torture. 

'  Open,  you  devil !  '  cried  Dunyasha  from 
the  other  side  of  the  door,  pounding  it  with 
her  fists.  '  Or  I'll  break  the  door  down  !  ' 

Trembling  with  tottering  steps,  Khinyakov 
reached  the  door,  opened  it,  and  quickly 
lay  down  again,  nay  almost  fell,  on  his  bed. 
Dunyasha,  already  befrizzled  and  bepowdered, 
sat  down  at  his  side,  shoving  him  against  the 
wall,  and,  crossing  her  legs,  said  with  an  air 
of  importance  : 

'  I  have  brought  you  news.  Katya  ex- 
pired yesterday.' 

'  What  Katya  ?  '  asked  Khinyakov,  using 
his  tongue  clumsily  and  uncertainly,  as  though 
it  did  not  belong  to  him. 

'  Come,  now,  you  can't  have  forgotten !  ' 
laughed  Dunyasha.  '  The  Katya  who  used  to 
live  here.  How  can  you  have  forgotten  her, 
when  she  has  ,been  gone  only  a  week  ?  ' 

'  Died  ?  ' 

'  Why,  of  course  died,  as  all  die.'  Dun- 
yasha moistened  the  tip  of  her  little  finger 
and  wiped  the  powder  from  her  thin  eye- 
lashes. 

'  What  of  ?  ' 

'  What  all  die  of.  Who  knows  what  ? 
They  told  me  yesterday  at  the  cafe,  Katya 
was  dead.' 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  183 

'  Did  you  love  her  ?  ' 

'  Certainly  I  loved  her !  What  are  you 
talking  about  !  ' 

Dunyasha's  stupid  eyes  looked  at  Khinya- 
kov  in  dull  indifference  as  she  swung  her 
fat  leg.  She  did  not  know  what  more  to  say, 
and  tried  to  look  at  him,  as  he  lay  there,  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  show  to  him  her  love,  and 
with  that  intent  she  gently  winked  her  eye, 
and  dropped  the  corners  of  her  full  lips. 

The  day  had  begun. 


II 


THAT  day,  a  Saturday,  the  frost  was  so  severe 
that  the  boys  did  not  go  to  school,  and  the 
horse-races  were  postponed  for  fear  of  the 
horses  catching  cold.  When  Natalya  Vladi- 
mirovna  came  out  from  the  lying-in  hospital, 
she  was  for  the  first  moment  glad  that  it  was 
evening,  that  there  was  no  one  on  the  em- 
bankment, that  none  met  her — an  unmarried 
girl,  with  a  six-day-old  child  in  her  arms.  It 
had  seemed  to  her  that,  as  soon  as  she  should 
cross  the  threshold,  she  would  be  met  by  a 
shouting,  hissing  crowd,  among  whom  would 
be  her  senile,  paralytic,  and  almost  blind 
father,  her  acquaintances,  students,  officers 
and  their  young  ladies ;  and  that  all  these 
would  point  the  finger  at  her  and  cry : 

'  There  goes  a  girl  who  has  passed  through 
six  classes  at  the  high-school,  had  acquaint- 
ances among  the  students  both  intellectual 
and  of  good  birth,  who  used  to  blush  at  a  word 
spoken  unadvisedly,  and  who  six  days  ago 

184 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  185 

gave  birth  to  a  child,  in  the  lying-in  hospital, 
side  by  side  with  other  fallen  women/ 

But  the  embankment  was  deserted.  Along 
it  the  icy  wind  travelled  unrestrained,  lifted 
a  grey  cloud  of  snow,  ground  by  the  frost 
into  a  biting  dust,  and  covered  with  it  every- 
thing living  and  dead  which  met  it  in  its  path. 
With  a  gentle  whistle  it  wove  itself  round  the 
metal  pillars  of  the  railings,  so  that  they  shone 
again,  and  looked  so  cold  and  lonely  that  it 
was  a  pain  to  look  at  them.  And  the  girl 
felt  herself  to  be  just  such  a  cold  thing,  an 
outcast  from  mankind  and  life.  She  had  on 
a  little  short  jacket,  the  one  which  she  usually 
wore  skating,  and  which  she  had  hurriedly 
thrown  on  when  she  left  her  home  suffering 
the  premonitory  pains  of  childbirth.  And 
when  the  wind  seized  her,  and  wrapped  her 
thin  skirt  about  her  ankles,  and  chille'd  her 
head,  she  began  to  fear  that  she  might  be 
frozen  to  death  ;  and  her  fear  of  a  crowd  dis- 
appeared, and  the  world  expanded  into  a 
boundless  icy  wilderness,  in  which  was  neither 
man,  nor  light,  nor  warmth.  Two  burning 
tear-drops  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  froze 
there.  Bending  her  head  down,  she  wiped 
them  away  with  the  formless  bundle  she  was 
carrying,  and  went  on  faster.  Now  she  no 
longer  loved  herself  nor  the  child,  and  both 
lives  seemed  to  her  worthless ;  only  certain 


186  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

words,  which  had,  as  it  were,  sunk  into  her 
brain,  persistently  repeated  themselves,  and 
went  before  her  calling  : 

'  Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the  second  house 
from  the  corner.  Nyemchinovskaya  Street, 
the  second  house  from  the  corner.' 

These  words  she  had  repeated  for  six  days 
as  she  lay  on  the  bed  and  fed  her  infant.  They 
meant,  that  she  must  go  to  Nyemchinov- 
skaya Street,  where  her  foster-sister,  an  un- 
fortunate, lived,  because  only  with  her  could 
she  find  an  asylum  for  herself  and  her  child. 
A  year  ago,  when  all  was  still  well  and  she 
was  continually  laughing  and  singing,  she 
had  visited  Katya,  who  was  ill,  and  had 
helped  her  with  money,  and  now  she  was  the 
only  human  being  remaining  before  whom 
she  was  not  ashamed. 

'  Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the  second  house 
from  the  corner.  Nyemchinovskaya  Street, 
the  second  house  from  the  corner.' 

She  walked  on,  and  the  wind  whirled 
angrily  round  her  ;  and  when  she  came  upon 
the  bridge  it  greedily  dashed  at  her  bosom, 
and  dug  its  iron  nails  into  her  cold  face. 
Vanquished,  it  dropped  noisily  from  the 
bridge,  and  circled  along  the  snow-covered 
surface  of  the  river,  and  again  swept  upwards, 
overshadowing  the  road  with  cold,  trembling 
wings.  Natalya  Vladimirovna  stood  still, 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  187 

and  in  utter  weakness  leaned  against  the  rail. 
From  the  depth  below  there  looked  up  at  her 
a  dull  black  eye — a  spot  of  unfrozen  water — 
and  its  gaze  was  mysterious  and  terrible. 
But  before  her  resounded  and  called  persis- 
tently the  words  : 

'  Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the  second 
house  from  the  corner.  Nyemchinovskaya 
Street,  the  second  house  from  the  corner.' 

Khinyakov  dressed,  and  lay  down  again  on 
his  bed  rolled  to  the  very  eyes  in  a  warm 
overcoat,  his  sole  remaining  possession.  The 
room  was  cold,  there  was  ice  in  the  corners, 
but  he  breathed  into  the  astrakhan  collar, 
and  so  became  warm  and  comfortable.  The 
whole  long  day  he  kept  deceiving  himself, 
that  to-morrow  he  would  go  and  seek  work, 
and  ask  for  something  ;  but  meanwhile  he 
was  content  not  to  think  at  all,  but  merely  to 
tremble  at  the  sound  of  a  raised  voice  the 
other  side  of  the  wall,  or  at  the  sound  of  a 
sharply  slammed  door.  He  had  lain  long  in 
this  way,  perfectly  still,  when  at  the  entrance 
door  he  heard  an  uneven  rapping,  timid,  and 
yet  hurried  and  sharp,  as  if  some  one  was 
knocking  with  the  back  of  the  hand.  His 
room  was  the  one  next  to  the  entrance  door, 
and  by  craning  his  head  and  pricking  up  his 
ears  he  could  distinguish  everything  which 
took  place  near  it.  Matryona  went  to  the 


i88  IN  THE   BASEMENT 

door  and  opened  it,  let  some  one  in  and 
closed  it  again.  Then  followed  an  expectant 
silence. 

'  Whom  do  you  want  ?  '  asked  Matryona 
in  a  hoarse,  unfriendly  tone.  A  stranger's 
voice,  gentle  and  broken,  bashfully  replied : 

'  I  want  Katya  Nyechayeva.  She  lives 
here  ?  ' 

'  She  did.  But  what  do  you  want  with 
her?' 

'  I  want  her  very  badly.  Is  she  not  at 
home  ?  '  and  in  her  voice  there  was  a  note  of 
fear. 

'  Katya  is  dead.  She  died,  I  say — in  the 
hospital.' 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence,  so  long 
indeed  that  Khinyakov  felt  a  pain  at  his  back  ; 
but  he  did  not  dare  to  move  it,  while  the  peo- 
ple there  kept  silence. 

Then  the  stranger's  voice  pronounced 
gently  and  without  expression,  the  one  word  : 

'  Good-bye  !  ' 

But  evidently  she  did  not  go  away,  since 
in  the  course  of  a  minute  Matryona  asked  : 
'  What  have  you  there  ?  Have  you  brought 
something  for  Katya  ?  ' 

Some  one  knelt  down,  striking  her  knees 
on  the  floor,  and  the  stranger's  voice,  con- 
vulsed with  suppressed  sobs,  uttered  quickly 
the  words : 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  189 

*  Take  it,  take  it !  For  the  love  of  God, 
take  it !  And  then  I — I'll  go  away.' 

'  But  what  is  it  ?  ' 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  a 
gentle  weeping,  broken,  and  hopeless.  There 
was  in  it  a  deadly  weariness,  and  a  black 
despair,  without  a  single  gleam  of  hope. 
It  was  as  though  a  hand  had  impotently 
drawn  the  bow  across  the  over-tightened, 
the  last  remaining,  string  of  an  expensive 
instrument,  and  when  the  string  snapped  the 
soft  wailing  note  had  been  silenced  for  ever. 

'  Why,  you  have  nearly  smothered  it !  ' 
exclaimed  Matryona  in  a  rough,  angry  tone. 
*  You  see  what  sort  of  people  undertake  to 
bear  children.  How  could  you  do  it  ?  Who- 
ever would  wrap  up  babies  like  that  ?  Come 
now,  come  along  ;  do,  I  say.  How  could  you 
do  such  a  thing  ?  ' 

Once  more  all  was  silent  near  the  door. 

Khinyakov  listened  a  little  longer  and  then 
lay  down,  delighted  that  no  one  had  come  to 
fetch  him,  and  not  taking  the  trouble  to  guess 
the  truth  about  what  he  had  not  understood 
in  that  which  had  just  taken  place.  He  began 
already  to  feel  the  approach  of  night,  and 
wished  that  some  one  would  turn  the  lamp 
up  higher.  He  became  restless,  and,  clench- 
ing his  teeth,  he  endeavoured  to  restrain  his 
thoughts.  In  the  past  there  was  nothing  but 


igo  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

mire,  falls,  and  horror,  and — there  was  the 
same  horror  in  the  future.  He  was  just  be- 
ginning by  degrees  to  snuggle  himself  to- 
gether, and  draw  up  his  hands  and  feet,  when 
Dunyasha  came  in,  dressed  to  go  out  in  a  red 
blouse,  and  already  slightly  intoxicated.  She 
plopped  down  on  the  bed,  and  said  with  a 
gesture  of  surprise  : 

'  Oh  Lord !  '  She  shook  her  head  and 
smiled.  '  They  have  brought  a  little  baby 
here.  Such  a  tiny  one,  my  friend,  but  he 
shouts  just  like  a  police-inspector.  Just  like 
a  police-inspector !  ' 

She  swore  whimsically,  and  coquettishly 
flipped  Khinyakov's  nose. 

'  Let's  go  and  see.  Why  not,  indeed  !  Yes, 
we'll  just  take  a  look  at  him.  Matryona  is 
going  to  bathe  it ;  she  is  boiling  the  samovar. 
Abram  Petrovich  is  blowing  up  the  charcoal 
with  his  boot.  How  funny  it  all  is.  And 
the  baby  is  crying  :  "  Wa,  wa,  wa  !  " 

Dunyasha  made  a  face  which  she  meant 
to  represent  the  baby,  and  again  went  on 
puling  :  '  "  Wa,  wa,  wa  !  "  Just  like  a 
police-inspector  !  Let's  go.  Don't  you  want 
to  ? — well,  then  devil  take  you  !  Turn  up 
your  toes  where  you  are,  rotten  egg,  you  !  ' 

And  she  danced  out  of  the  room.  But  half 
an  hour  after  Khinyakov,  tottering  on  his 
weak  legs  and  hanging  on  to  the  doorposts, 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  191 

hesitatingly  opened  the  door  of  the  kitchen. 

'  Shut  it !  you've  made  a  draught/  cried 
Abram  Petrovich. 

Khinyakov  hastily  slammed  the  door  be- 
hind him,  and  looked  round  apologetically  ; 
but  no  one  took  any  notice  of  him,  so  he 
calmed  down.  The  combined  heat  of  the 
stove,  the  urn,  and  the  company  made  the 
kitchen  pretty  warm,  and  the  vapour  rose, 
and  then  rolled  down  the  colder  walls  in  thick 
drops.  Matryona  with  a  severe  and  irritated 
mien  was  washing  the  child  in  a  trough,  and 
with  pock-marked  hands  was  splashing  the 
water  over  him,  while  she  crooned  : 

'  Little  lambkin,  then,  it  s'all  be  clean. 
It  s'all  be  white.' 

Whether  it  was  because  the  kitchen  was 
light  and  cheerful,  or  because  the  water  was 
warm  and  caressing,  at  all  events  the  child 
was  quiet,  and  wrinkled  up  its  little  red  face 
as  though  about  to  sneeze.  Dunyasha  looked 
at  the  tub  over  Matryona 's  shoulder,  and  seiz- 
ing her  opportunity,  splashed  the  little  one 
with  three  fingers. 

'  Get  away  !  '  the  old  woman  cried  in  a 
threatening  tone,  '  where  are  you  coming 
to  ?  I  know  what  to  do  without  your  help. 
I  have  had  children  of  my  own.' 

'  Don't  meddle.  She's  quite  right,  chil- 
dren are  such  tender  things,'  said  Abram 


192  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

Petrovich,  in  support  of  her ;    '  they  want 
some  handling.' 

He  sat  down  on  the  table,  and  with  con- 
descending satisfaction  contemplated  the  lit- 
tle rosy  body.  The  baby  wriggled  its  fingers, 
and  Dunyasha  with  wild  delight  wagged  her 
head  and  laughed. 

'  Just  like  a  police-inspector  !  ' 

'  But  have  you  seen  a  police-inspector  in  a 
trough  ?  '  asked  Abram  Petrovich. 

All  laughed,  and  even  Khinyakov  smiled ; 
but  almost  immediately  the  smile  left  his 
face  in  affright,  and  he  looked  round  at  the 
mother.  She  was  sitting  wearily  on  the 
bench,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  and  her 
black  eyes,  abnormally  large  from  sickness  and 
suffering,  lighted  up  with  a  peaceful  gleam, 
and  on  her  pale  lips  hovered  the  proud  smile 
of  a  mother.  And  when  he  saw  this  Khin- 
yakov burst  into  a  solitary,  belated  laugh  : 

'He!    he!    he!' 

He  even  looked  proudly  round  on  all 
sides.  Matryona  took  the  baby  out  of  the 
tub,  and  wrapped  it  in  a  bath-sheet.  The 
child  burst  into  loud  crying,  but  was  soon 
quieted  again,  and  Matryona,  unrolling  the 
sheet,  smiled  in  confusion  and  said  : 

'  What  a  dear  little  body,  just  like  velvet/ 

'  Let  me  feel,'  entreated  Dunyasha. 

'  What  next ! ' 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  193 

Dunyasha  began  suddenly  to  tremble  all 
over,  and  stamped  her  feet  ;  choking  with 
longing,  and  mad  with  the  desire,  which  over- 
whelmed her,  she  cried  in  such  a  shrill  voice 
as  none  had  ever  heard  from  her  : 

'  Let  me  !    let  me  !  ' 

'  Yes,  let  her/  entreated  Natalya  Vladi- 
mirovna  in  a  fright.  And  Dunyasha  just  as 
suddenly  became  quiet  again.  She  cautiously 
touched  the  child's  little  shoulder  with  two 
fingers,  and  following  her  example,  Abram 
Petrovich,  with  a  condescending  wink,  also 
reached  out  to  that  little  red  shoulder. 

'  Yes,  indeed,  children  are  tender  things,' 
said  he  in  self  -justification. 

Last  of  all  Khinyakov  tried  it.  His  fingers 
felt  for  a  moment  the  touch  of  something 
living,  downy  like  velvet,  and  withal  so  ten- 
der and  feeble  that  his  fingers  seemed  no 
longer  to  belong  to  him,  and  became  as  tender 
as  the  something  he  touched.  And  thus, 
craning  their  necks,  and  unconsciously  light- 
ing up  into  a  smile  of  strange  happiness, 
stood  the  three,  the  thief,  the  prostitute,  and 
the  lonely  broken  man,  and  that  little  life, 
feeble  as  a  distant  light  on  the  steppe,  was 
vaguely  calling  them  somewhither,  and  pro- 
mising them  something  beautiful,  bright, 
immortal.  And  the  happy  mother  looked 
proudly  on,  while  above  the  low  ceiling  the 


L.A. 


194  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

house  rose  in  a  heavy  mass  of  stone,  and  in 
the  upper  flats  the  rich  sauntered  about,  and 
yawned  with  ennui. 

Night  had  come  on,  black,  malign,  as  all 
nights  are,  and  had  pitched  her  tent  in  dark- 
ness over  the  distant  snowy  fields ;  and  the 
lonely  branches  of  trees  became  chilled  with 
fear,  just  those  branches  which  first  wel- 
comed the  morning  sun.  With  feeble  arti- 
ficial light  man  fought  against  her,  but 
strong  and  malign  she  girded  the  isolated 
lights  in  a  hopeless  circle,  and  filled  the  hearts 
of  men  with  darkness.  And  in  many  a 
heart  she  extinguished  the  feeble  flickering 
sparks. 

Khinyakov  did  not  sleep.  Huddled  up 
together  into  a  little  ball,  he  hid  himself  under 
a  soft  heap  of  rags  from  the  cold  and  from 
the  night,  and  wept,  without  effort,  without 
pain  or  convulsion,  as  those  weep  whose  heart 
is  pure  and  without  sin,  as  the  heart  of  a  little 
child.  He  pitied  himself  huddled  up  into  a 
heap,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  pitied  all 
mankind  and  the  whole  of  human  life,  and 
in  this  feeling  there  was  a  secret,  profound 
gladness.  He  saw  the  child,  just  born,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  himself  was  reborn 
to  a  new  life,  and  would  live  long,  and  that 
his  life  would  be  beautiful.  He  loved  and  yet 
pitied  this  new  life,  and  he  felt  so  happy,  that 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  195 

he  laughed  so  that  he  shook  the  heap  of  rags, 
and  then  asked  himself  : 

'  Why  am  I  weeping  ?  ' 

But  he  could  not  discover  the  answer  to 
his  own  question,  and  so  replied  : 

'So!' 

And  such  a  profound  thought  was  conveyed 
by  this  short  word,  that  this  wreck  of  a  man, 
whose  life  was  so  pitiable  and  lonely,  was 
convulsed  with  a  fresh  burst  of  scalding  tears. 

But  at  his  bedside  rapacious  death  was 
noiselessly  taking  its  seat,  and  waiting — 
quietly,  patiently,  persistently. 


THE    CITY 

IT  was  an  immense  city  in  which  they  lived  : 
Petrov,  clerk  in  a  commercial  bank,  and  he, 
the  other, — name  unknown. 

They  used  to  meet  once  a  year,  at  Easter, 
when  they  both  went  to  pay  a  visit  at  one 
and  the  same  house,  that  of  the  Vasilyevskys. 
Petrov  used  to  pay  a  visit  also  at  Christmas, 
but  probably  the  other,  whom  he  used  to 
meet,  came  at  Christmas  at  a  different  hour, 
and  so  they  did  not  see  one  another.  The 
first  two  or  three  times  Petrov  did  not  notice 
him  among  so  many  visitors,  but  the  fourth 
year  his  face  seemed  known  to  him  and  they 
greeted  one  another  with  a  smile — and  the 
fifth  year  Petrov  proposed  to  clink  glasses 
with  him. 

'  Your  health  !  '  he  said  politely,  and  held 
out  his  glass. 

'  Here's  to  yours  !  '  the  other  replied  with 
a  smile,  and  he  too  held  out  his  glass. 

Petrov  did  not  think  of  asking  his  name, 
and  when  he  went  out  into  the  street  he  quite 

197 


198  THE  CITY 

forgot  his  existence,  and  the  whole  year 
never  thought  of  him  again.  Every  day  he 
went  to  the  bank,  where  he  had  been  em- 
ployed for  nine  years  ;  in  the  winter  he  occa- 
sionally went  to  the  theatre  ;  in  the  summer 
he  visited  at  the  bungalow  of  an  acquaint- 
ance ;  and  twice  he  was  ill  with  the  influenza 
— the  second  time  immediately  before  Easter. 

And  just  as  he  was  mounting  the  stairs 
at  the  Vasilyevskys',  in  evening  dress  and  with 
his  opera-hat  under  his  arm,  he  remembered 
that  he  would  see  him  there,  the  other,  and 
felt  very  much  surprised  that  he  could  not 
in  the  least  recall  his  face  and  figure.  Petrov 
himself  was  below  the  average  height  and 
somewhat  round-shouldered,  so  that  many 
took  him  for  a  hunchback ;  he  had  large 
black  eyes  with  yellowish  whites.  In  other 
respects  he  did  not  differ  from  the  rest,  who 
paid  a  visit  to  the  Vasilyevskys  twice  a  year, 
and  when  they  forgot  his  surname  they  used 
to  speak  of  him  as  the  '  little  hunchback.' 

He,  the  other,  was  already  there,  and  on 
the  point  of  going  away  ;  but  when  he  recog- 
nised Petrov,  he  smiled  politely,  and  re- 
mained. He  was  also  in  evening  dress  and 
had  an  opera-hat,  and  Petrov  failed  to  exam- 
ine him  further,  since  he  was  occupied  with 
talking,  and  eating,  and  drinking  tea. 

They  went  out  together,  and  helped  one 


THE  CITY  199 

another  on  with  their  coats,  like  friends  :  they 
politely  made  way  the  one  for  the  other,  and 
each  gave  the  porter  a  half -rouble.  They 
stood  still  a  short  time  in  the  street,  and  then 
he,  the  other,  said  : 

'  Well,  tipping's  become  a  regular  tax. 
But  it  can't  be  helped.' 

Petrov  replied  : 

'  Yes,  quite  true.' 

And  since  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said,  they  smiled  in  a  friendly  manner,  and 
Petrov  said  : 

'  Which  way  are  you  going  ?  ' 

'  I  turn  to  the  left.     And  you  ?  ' 

'  I  to  the  right.' 

In  the  cab  Petrov  remembered  that  he 
had  again  failed  either  to  ask  his  name,  or 
to  observe  him  particularly.  He  turned 
round  :  carriages  were  passing  in  both  direc- 
tions, the  pavements  were  black  with  pedes- 
trians, and  in  that  closely  moving  mass  it 
was  as  impossible  to  distinguish  him,  the 
other,  as  to  find  a  particular  grain  of  sand 
amongst  other  grains.  And  again  Petrov 
forgot  him,  and  did  not  think  of  him  again  for 
a  whole  year. 

Petrov  had  lived  for  many  years  in  the 
same  furnished  apartments,  and  he  was  not 
much  liked  there,  because  he  was  grumpy  and 
irritable  ;  and  they  also  called  him  behind  his 


200  THE  CITY 

back,  '  Humpty.'  He  used  often  to  sit  in  his 
apartment  alone,  and  none  knew  what  work 
he  did,  since  Fedot,  the  upstairs  servant,  did 
not  look  on  books  and  letters  as  '  work.'  At 
night  Petrov  sometimes  went  for  a  walk,  and 
Ivan  the  porter  could  not  understand  these 
walks,  since  Petrov  always  returned  sober, 
and — alone. 

But  Petrov  used  to  walk  about  at  night, 
because  he  was  very  much  afraid  of  the  city 
in  which  he  lived,  and  he  feared  it  more  than 
ever  in  the  daytime,  when  the  streets  were 
full  of  people. 

The  city  was  immense  and  populous,  and 
there  was  in  its  populousness  and  immensity 
something  stubborn,  unconquerable,  and  cal- 
lously cruel.  With  the  colossal  weight  of  its 
bloated  stone  houses,  it  crushed  the  earth 
on  which  it  stood ;  and  the  streets  between 
the  houses  were  narrow,  crooked,  and  deep 
like  fissures  in  a  rock.  It  seemed  as  though 
they  were  all  seized  with  a  panic  of  fear,  and 
were  endeavouring  to  run  away  from  the 
centre  to  the  open  country,  and  that  they 
could  not  find  the  road,  and  losing  their  way 
had  rolled  themselves  in  a  ball  like  a  serpent, 
and  were  intersecting  one  another,  and  look- 
ing back  in  hopeless  despair. 

One  might  walk  for  hours  about  these 
streets,  which  seemed  broken-down,  choked, 


THE  CITY  201 

and  faint  with  a  terrible  convulsion,  and 
never  emerge  from  the  line  of  fat  stone  houses. 
Some  high,  others  low,  some  flushed  with  the 
cold  thin  blood  of  new  bricks,  others  painted 
with  a  dark  or  light  colour,  they  stood  in 
unswaying  solidity  on  both  sides,  callously 
met,  and  personally  conducted  one,  and 
pressing  together  in  a  dense  crowd,  in  this 
direction  and  in  that,  lost  their  individuality 
and  become  like  one  another — and  the  walker 
grew  frightened  :  it  was  as  though  he  had 
become  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  the  houses 
kept  going  past  him  in  an  endless  truculent 
file. 

Once  Petrov  was  walking  quietly  about 
the  street,  when  suddenly  he  felt  what  a 
thickness  of  stone  houses  separated  him  from 
the  wide,  open  country,  where  the  free  earth 
breathed  softly  in  the  sunshine,  and  man's 
eyes  might  look  round  to  the  distant  horizon. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  suffocating 
and  being  blinded,  and  he  felt  a  desire  to  run 
and  get  quickly  out  from  the  stony  embrace 
— and  it  became  a  horror  to  him  to  think, 
however  fast  he  might  run,  still  houses,  ever 
houses,  would  go  with  him  on  both  sides, 
and  he  would  be  suffocated  before  he  could 
run  beyond  the  city.  Petrov  ensconced  him- 
self in  the  first  restaurant  he  came  across, 
but  even  there  he  seemed  for  a  long  time  to  be 


202  THE  CITY 

suffocating ;  so  he  drank  cold  water,  and 
wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief. 

But  the  most  terrible  thing  of  all  was,  that 
in  all  the  houses  there  lived  human  beings, 
and  about  all  the  streets  were  moving  human 
beings.  There  were  a  multitude  of  them,  and 
all  of  them  were  unknown  to  him — strangers  ; 
and  all  of  them  lived  their  own  separate  life, 
hidden  from  the  eyes  of  others ;  they  were 
without  interruption  being  born,  and  dying, 
and  there  was  no  beginning  nor  end  to  this 
stream.  Whenever  Petrov  went  to  the  bank, 
or  out  for  a  walk,  he  saw  the  same  familiar, 
well-known  houses,  and  everything  appeared 
to  him  simply  an  old  acquaintance  ;  if,  how- 
ever, he  stood  still,  but  for  a  moment,  to  fix 
his  attention  on  some  face,  then  all  was  quickly 
and  terribly  changed.  With  a  feeling  of 
terror  and  impotence  Petrov  would  look  at 
all  the  faces,  and  understand  that  he  saw  them 
for  the  first  time,  that  yesterday  he  had  seen 
other  people,  and  to-morrow  would  see  yet 
others  ;  and  so  always,  every  day,  and  every 
minute,  he  would  see  new,  unknown  faces. 
There  was  a  stout  gentleman,  at  whom  Petrov 
glanced,  disappearing  round  the  corner — and 
never  would  Petrov  see  him  again.  Even  if 
he  wished  to  find  him,  he  might  search  for  him 
all  his  life,  and  never  succeed. 

And  Petrov  feared  the  immense,  callous  city. 


THE  CITY  203 

This  year  again  Petrov  had  the  influenza, 
very  severely  with  a  complication,  and  he  was 
frequently  afflicted  with  cold  in  the  head. 

Moreover,  the  doctor  found  that  he  had 
catarrh  of  the  stomach,  and  the  next  Easter, 
as  he  was  going  to  the  Vasilyevskys',  he 
thought  on  the  way  of  what  he  should  eat 
there.  When  he  recognized  him,  the  other, 
he  was  pleased  and  informed  him  : 

'  My  dear  sir,  I  have  a  catarrh.' 

He,  the  other,  shook  his  head  sympathe- 
tically, and  replied : 

'  You  don't  say  so  ! ' 

And  once  more  Petrov  did  not  inquire  his 
name,  but  he  began  to  look  upon  him  as  quite 
an  old  acquaintance,  and  thought  of  him  with 
pleasurable  feelings.  '  Him,'  he  named  him, 
but  when  he  wanted  to  recall  his  face,  he 
could  only  conjure  up  an  evening  coat,  white 
waistcoat,  and  a  smile  ;  and  since  he  could  not 
in  the  least  recollect  the  face,  it  inevitably 
appeared  as  though  the  coat  and  waistcoat 
smiled.  That  summer  Petrov  went  out  very 
frequently  to  a  certain  bungalow,  wore  a  red 
neck-tie,  dyed  his  moustache,  and  said  to 
Fedot  that  in  the  autumn  he  should  change 
his  quarters ;  but  afterwards  he  gave  up 
going  to  the  bungalow,  and  took  to  drink  for 
a  whole  month.  He  managed  his  drinking 
clumsily — with  tears  and  scenes.  Once  he 


204  THE  CITY 

broke  the  mirror  in  his  room  ;  another  time 
he  frightened  a  certain  lady.  He  invaded  her 
apartment  in  the  evening,  fell  on  his  knees  and 
proposed  to  her.  This  fair  unknown  was  a 
courtesan,  and  at  first  listened  to  him  atten- 
tively and  even  laughed,  but  when  he  began 
to  weep  and  complain  of  his  loneliness,  she 
took  him  for  a  madman,  and  began  to  scream 
with  terror.  As  they  led  him  away,  support- 
ing himself  against  Fedot,  he  pulled  his  hair 
and  cried : 

'  We  are  all  men,  all  brethren  !  ' 
They  had  decided  to  get  rid  of  him  ;  but  he 
gave  up  drinking,  and  once  more  the  porter 
swore  at  having  to  open  and  shut  the  door  for 
him.  At  New  Year  Petrov  received  an  in- 
crease of  100  roubles  per  annum,  and  he 
changed  into  a  neighbouring  apartment,  which 
was  five  roubles  dearer,  and  had  windows 
looking  into  the  courtyard.  Petrov  thought 
that  there  he  would  not  hear  the  rumbling 
of  the  street  traffic,  and  might  even  forget 
what  a  multitude  of  unknown  strangers  sur- 
rounded him,  and  lived  their  own  particular 
lives  in  proximity  to  him. 

In  the  winter  it  was  quiet  in  his  rooms,  but 
when  spring  came,  and  the  snow  was  removed 
from  the  streets,  the  rumble  of  the  traffic 
began  again,  and  the  double  walls  were  no 
protection  from  it. 


THE  CITY  205 

In  the  daytime,  while  he  was  occupied 
with  something,  and  himself  moved  about  and 
made  a  noise,  he  did  not  notice  the  rumbling, 
though  it  never  ceased  for  a  moment ;  but 
when  night  came  on  and  all  became  quiet  in 
the  house,  then  the  noisy  street  forced  its 
way  into  the  dark  chamber,  and  deprived  it 
of  all  quiet  and  privacy.  The  jarring  and 
disjointed  sounds  of  individual  vehicles  were 
heard ;  an  indistinct,  slight  sound  would 
come  to  life  somewhere  in  the  distance,  grow 
louder  and  clearer,  and  by  degrees  die  down 
again,  and  in  its  place  would  be  heard  a  new 
one,  and  so  on  and  on  without  intermission. 
Sometimes  only  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  struck 
the  ground  evenly  and  rhythmically,  and  there 
was  no  sound  of  wheels — this  was  when  a 
caleche  went  by  on  rubber  tyres ;  but  often 
the  noise  of  individual  vehicles  would  blend 
into  a  terrible  loud  rumble,  which  made  the 
stone  walls  tremble  slightly,  and  set  the 
bottles  vibrating  in  the  cupboard.  And  all 
this  was  caused  by  human  beings  !  They 
sat  in  hired  and  private  carriages,  they  drove 
no  one  knew  whence  or  whither,  they  dis- 
appeared into  the  unknown  depths  of  the 
immense  city,  and  in  their  place  appeared 
fresh  people,  other  human  beings,  and  there 
was  no  end  to  this  incessant  movement,  so 
terrible  in  its  incessancy.  And  every  passer- 


206  THE  CITY 

by  was  a  separate  microcosm,  with  his  own 
rules  and  aims  of  life,  with  his  own  affinity, 
whom  he  loved,  with  his  own  separate  joys 
and  sorrows,  and  each  was  like  a  ghost,  which 
appeared  for  a  moment  and  then  disappeared 
inexplicably  and  unrecognized.  And  the 
more  people  there  were,  who  were  unknown 
to  one  another,  the  more  terrible  became  the 
solitude  of  each.  And  during  those  black, 
rumbling  nights  Petrov  often  felt  inclined  to 
cry  out  in  fear,  and  to  betake  himself  to  the 
deep  cellar,  in  order  to  be  there  perfectly 
alone.  There  one  might  think  only  of  those 
one  knew,  and  not  feel  oneself  so  infinitely 
alone  among  a  multitude  of  strange  people. 

At  Easter,  he,  the  other,  did  not  turn  up 
at  the  Vasilyevskys',  and  Petrov  did  not  ob- 
serve his  absence  until  the  end  of  his  call,  when 
he  had  begun  to  make  his  adieux,  and  failed 
to  meet  the  well-known  smile.  And  he  felt 
a  disquiet  at  heart,  and  suddenly  was  con- 
scious of  a  painful  longing  to  see  him,  the 
other,  and  to  say  something  to  him  about  his 
loneliness  and  his  nights.  But  he  had  only  a 
very  slight  recollection  of  the  man  whom  he 
sought ;  only  that  he  was  of  middle  age,  fair 
apparently,  and  always  in  evening  dress ; 
but  by  this  description  the  Vasilyevskys  could 
not  guess  of  whom  he  was  speaking. 

'  So  many  people  pay  us  a  visit  on  Festi- 


THE  CITY  207 

vals,  that  we  do  not  know  the  surnames  of 

all/  said  Madame.  '  However was  it  Syo- 

menov  ?  ' 

And  she  counted  one  by  one  on  her  fingers 
several  surnames  :  '  Smirnov,  Antonov,  Niki- 
phorov  ;  '  and  then  without  the  surname  : 
'  The  bald  man,  in  the  civil  service,  the  post 
office  I  think  ;  the  one  with  the  light  brown 
hair ;  the  one  quite  grey/  And  none  of 
them  were  the  one  after  whom  Petrov  was 
inquiring — though  they  might  have  been. 
And  so  he  was  not  discovered. 

This  year  nothing  particular  happened  in 
the  life  of  Petrov,  except  that  his  eyesight 
deteriorated  and  he  had  to  take  to  glasses. 
At  night,  when  the  weather  was  fine,  he  went 
walking,  and  chose  the  quiet,  deserted  bye- 
streets  for  his  peregrinations.  But  even  there 
people  were  to  be  met,  whom  he  had  never 
seen  before,  and  never  would  see  again  ;  and 
the  houses  towered  on  either  side  in  a  dull 
wall,  and  inside  they  were  full  of  persons 
utterly  unknown  to  him,  who  slept,  and 
talked,  and  quarelled  :  some  one  was  dying 
behind  those  walls,  and  close  to  him  a  fresh 
human  being  was  coming  into  the  world,  to 
be  lost  for  a  time  in  its  ever-moving  infinity, 
and  then  to  die  for  ever.  In  order  to  console 
himself,  Petrov  would  count  over  all  his  ac- 
quaintances ;  and  their  neighbourly  familiar 


2o8  THE  CITY 

faces  were  like  a  wall  which  separated  him 
from  infinity.  He  endeavoured  to  remem- 
ber all ;  the  porters,  shop-keeper,  cabmen 
that  he  knew,  also  passers-by  whom  he 
casually  remembered  ;  and  at  first  he  seemed 
to  know  very  many  people,  but  when  he  be- 
gan to  count  them  up,  the  number  became 
terribly  small :  all  his  life  long  he  had  only 
known  250  people,  including  him,  the  other. 
And  these  were  all  who  were  known  and 
neighbourly  to  him  in  the  world.  Possibly 
there  were  people  whom  he  had  known,  and 
forgotten  ;  but  that  was  just  as  though  they 
did  not  exist. 

He,  the  other,  was  very  glad,  when  he  recog- 
nized Petrov  the  next  Easter.  He  had  a  new 
dress  suit  on,  and  new  boots  which  creaked, 
and  he  said  as  he  pressed  Petrov' s  hand : 

'  But,  you  know,  I  almost  died.  I  was 
seized  with  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and 
even  now  there  is  there ' — and  he  tapped 
himself  on  the  side — '  something  the  matter 
with  the  upper  part,  I  believe.' 

'  I'm  sorry  for  you/  said  Petrov  with  sin- 
cere sympathy. 

They  talked  about  various  ailments,  and 
each  spoke  of  his  own,  and  when  they  separ- 
ated they  did  so  with  a  prolonged  pressure  of 
the  hand,  but  they  quite  forgot  to  ask  each 
other's  name.  The  following  Easter  it  was 


THE  CITY  209 

Petrov  who  did  not  put  in  an  appearance  at 
the  Vasilyevskys',  and  he,  the  other,  was 
much  disquieted,  and  inquired  of  Madame 
Vasilyevsky  who  the  little  hunchback  was 
who  visisted  them. 

'  I  know  what  his  surname  is,'  said  she, 
'  it  is  Petrov/ 

'  But  what  are  his  Christian  name  and  his 
father's  ?  ' 

Madame  Vasilyevsky  would  willingly  have 
told  his  name,  but  it  seems  she  did  not  know 
it,  and  was  very  much  surprised  at  the  fact. 
Neither  did  she  know  in  what  office  Petrov 
was,  perhaps  the  post  office  or  some  bank. 

The  next  time  he,  the  other,  did  not  appear. 

The  time  after  both  came,  but  at  different 
hours,  so  they  did  not  meet.  And  then  they 
altogether  left  off  putting  in  an  appearance, 
and  the  Vasilyevskys  never  saw  them  again, 
and  did  not  even  give  them  a  thought ;  for 
so  many  people  visited  them,  and  they  could 
not  possibly  remember  them  all. 

The  immense  city  grew  still  bigger,  and 
there,  where  the  broad  fields  had  stretched, 
irrepressible  new  streets  lengthened  out,  and 
on  both  sides  of  them  stout,  multi-coloured 
stone  houses  crushed  heavily  the  ground  on 
which  they  stood.  And  to  the  seven  ceme- 
teries which  had  before  existed  in  the  city  was 

added  a  new  one,  the  eighth.     In  it  there 
L.A.  I4 


2io  THE   MARSEILLAISE 

was  no  greenery  at  all,  and  meanwhile  they 
buried  in  it  only  paupers. 

And  when  the  long  autumn  night  drew 
on,  it  became  still  in  the  cemetery,  and  there 
reached  it  only  in  distant  echoes  the  rumbling 
of  the  street  traffic,  which  ceased  not  day  nor 
night. 


THE    MARSEILLAISE 

HE  was  a  nonentity,  with  the  soul  of  a  hare 
and  the  shameless  endurance  of  a  beast  of 
burden.  When  the  malicious  irony  of  fate 
cast  his  lot  in  among  our  black  ranks,  we 
laughed  like  maniacs  at  the  thought  that 
such  absurd  inept  mistakes  could  actually  be 
made.  As  for  him,  well — he  cried.  And 
never  have  I  met  with  a  man  of  so  many 
tears,  flowing  so  freely — from  eyes  and  nose 
and  mouth.  He  was  like  a  sponge  saturated 
with  water,  and  then  squeezed.  In  our  ranks 
I  have  seen,  indeed,  men  who  wept,  but  then 
their  tears  were  fire,  from  which  even  fierce 
wild  beasts  would  run  away.  These  manly 
tears  aged  the  faces,  but  made  the  eyes  young 
again.  Like  lava  released  from  the  red-hot 
bowels  of  the  earth,  they  burnt  an  indelible 
track,  and  buried  under  themselves  whole 
cities  of  worthless  devices  and  shallow  cares. 
But  when  this  fellow  began  to  weep,  only  his 
nose  grew  red,  and  his  handkerchief  became 

211 


212  THE  MARSEILLAISE 

wet.  Probably  he  used  to  hang  out  his 
handkerchiefs  on  a  line  to  dry  ;  how  other- 
wise could  he  have  supplied  himself  with  so 
many  ? 

During  the  whole  time  of  exile  he  was 
continually  applying  to  the  authorities,  real 
and  imaginary,  bowing,  and  weeping,  and 
swearing  that  he  was  innocent,  entreating 
them  to  have  pity  upon  his  youth,  and  pro- 
mising all  his  life  never  to  open  his  mouth 
except  in  petition  and  gratitude.  But  they 
laughed  at  him,  even  as  did  we,  and  called 
him  '  the  wretched  little  pig,'  and  would  call 
out  to  him  : 

'  Piggy,  come  here  !  ' 

And  he  would  obediently  run  to  their 
cell,  expecting  each  time  to  hear  news  of  his 
restoration  to  his  native  land.  But  they 
were  only  joking.  They  knew,  as  well  as  we 
did,  that  he  was  innocent.  But  they  thought 
by  his  torments  to  intimidate  other  little  pigs, 
as  though  they  were  not  cowardly  enough 
already.  He  would  also  come  to  us,  impelled 
by  an  animal  dread  of  solitude.  But  our 
faces  were  stern,  and  locked  against  him,  and 
in  vain  he  sought  for  the  key.  At  an  utter 
loss  what  to  do,  he  would  call  us  his  dear 
comrades  and  friends.  But  we  would  shake 
our  heads  and  say  : 

'  Look  out  !     Some  one  will  hear  you  !  ' 


THE  MARSEILLAISE  213 

And  he  was  not  ashamed  to  glance  round  at 
the  door — the  little  pig  ! 

Well !  Could  we  possibly  contain  our- 
selves ?  No,  we  laughed  with  mouths  long 
accustomed  to  laughter.  Then  he,  embold- 
ened and  comforted,  would  sit  down  nearer 
to  us,  and  converse,  and  weep  about  his  dear 
books,  which  he  had  left  upon  the  table,  and 
about  his  mamma  and  little  brothers,  of 
whom  he  did  not  know  whether  they  were 
alive  or  dead  of  fear  and  grief. 

Towards  the  end  we  refused  to  associate 
with  him  any  longer.  When  the  hunger- 
strike  began  he  was  seized  with  terror — the 
most  inexpressibly  comical  terror.  He  was 
evidently  very  fond  of  his  stomach,  poor  little 
pig,  and  he  was  terribly  afraid  of  his  dear 
comrades,  and  also  of  the  authorities.  He 
wandered  about  among  us  in  a  state  of  per- 
turbation, continually  passing  his  handker- 
chief over  his  forehead,  upon  which  something 
had  exuded — was  it  tears  or  perspiration  ? 
Then  he  asked  me  in  an  irresolute  manner : 

'  Shall  you  starve  long  ?  ' 

'  For  a  long  time/  I  sternly  replied. 

'  But  will  you  not  eat  anything  on  the 
sly'?  ' 

'  Our  mammas  will  send  us  pies/  I  acqui- 
esced in  all  seriousness.  He  looked  at  me  in 
doubt,  nodded  his  head  and  went  away  with 


214  THE   MARSEILLAISE 

a  sigh.  The  next  day,  green  as  a  paroquet 
with  fear,  he  answered  : 

'  Dear  comrades  !  I  also  will  starve  with 
you.' 

We  replied  with  one  voice  :  '  Starve  by 
yourself !  ' 

And  he  did  starve  !  We  did  not  believe 
it,  just  as  you  will  not  believe  it :  we  thought 
that  he  ate  something  on  the  sly,  and  so  top 
thought  our  guards.  And  when  towards  the 
end  of  the  strike  he  fell  ill  of  famine-typhus, 
we  only  shrugged  our  shoulders  and  said  : 

'  Poor  little  Pig  !  ' 

But  one  of  us — he  who  never  laughed — said 
grimly  :  '  He  is  our  comrade,  let  us  go  to 
him.' 

He  was  delirious,  and  his  incoherent  rav- 
ings were  as  piteous  as  the  whole  of  his  life. 
He  talked  of  his  dear  books,  of  his  mamma 
and  brothers  ;  he  asked  for  tarts,  cold  as  ice, 
tasty  tarts ;  and  he  swore  that  he  was  inno- 
cent, and  begged  for  pardon.  He  called  on 
his  native  country — his  dear  France,  and 
damn  the  weakness  of  the  human  heart ! 
he  rent  our  souls  with  that  cry  of  '  Dear 
France.' 

We  were  all  in  the  room  when  he  lay 
a-dying.  He  recovered  his  consciousness 
before  death,  and  silent  he  lay,  so  small,  so 
weak  ;  and  silent  stood  we  his  comrades. 


THE   MARSEILLAISE  215 

We  all  to  a  man  heard  him  say  :  '  When  I  am 
dead  sing  over  me  the  Marseillaise.' 

'  What  dost  thou  say  ? '  we  exclaimed, 
with  a  shock  of  mingled  joy  and  rising  anger. 

He  repeated  :  '  When  I  am  dead  sing  over 
me  the  Marseillaise.' 

And  it  happened  for  the  first  time  that 
his  eyes  were  dry,  but  we  wept,  wept  one  and 
all :  and  our  tears  burned  like  fire  from  which 
fierce  wild-beasts  do  flee. 

He  died,  and  we  sang  over  him  the  Mar- 
seillaise. With  lusty  young  voices  we  sang 
that  great  song  of  freedom  ;  and  threaten- 
ingly the  ocean  re-echoed  it  to  us,  and  the 
crests  of  its  waves  bore  to  his  dear  France  pale 
terror,  and  blood-red  hope. 

And  he  became  ever  our  watchword,  that 
nonentity  with  the  body  of  a  hare,  and  of  a 
beast  of  burden — but  with  the  great  soul  of  a 
man  !  On  your  knees,  comrades  and  friends  ! 

We  sang  !  At  us  the  rifles  were  aimed, 
while  their  locks  clicked  ominously,  and  the 
sharp  points  of  the  bayonets  were  menacingly 
turned  towards  our  hearts.  But  ever  louder 
and  more  joyfully  resounded  the  threatening 
song,  while  the  black  coffin  swayed  in  the 
tender  hands  of  stalwarts. 

We  sang  the  Marseillaise ! 


THE   TOCSIN 


DURING  that  hot  and  ill-omened  summer 
everything  was  burning.  Whole  towns, 
villages  and  hamlets  were  consumed  ;  forests 
and  fields  were  no  longer  a  protection  to 
them,  but  even  the  forests  themselves  sub- 
missively burst  into  flame,  and  the  fire 
spread  like  a  red  table-cloth  over  the  parched 
meadows.  During  the  day  the  dim  red  sun 
was  hidden  in  acrid  smoke,  but  at  night-time 
in  all  quarters  of  the  sky  a  quiet  red-glow 
burst  forth,  which  rocked  in  silent,  fantastic 
dance ;  and  strange  confused  shadows  of 
men  and  trees  crept  over  the  ground  like 
some  unknown  species  of  reptile.  The  dogs 
ceased  their  welcoming  bark,  which  from  afar 
calls  to  the  traveller  and  promises  him  a  roof 
and  hospitality,  and  either  uttered  a  pro- 
longed melancholy  howl,  or  crept  into  the 
cellar  in  sullen  silence.  And  men,  like  dogs, 

217 


218  THE  TOCSIN 

looked  at  one  another  with  evil,  frightened 
eyes,  and  spoke  aloud  of  arson,  and  secret 
incendiaries.  Indeed,  in  one  remote  village 
they  had  killed  an  old  man  who  could  not 
give  a  satisfactory  account  of  his  movements, 
and  then  the  women  had  wept  over  the 
murdered  man,  and  pitied  his  grey  beard  all 
matted  with  dark  blood. 

During  this  hot  and  ill-omened  summer  I 
lived  at  the  house  of  a  country  squire,  where 
were  many  women,  young  and  old.  By 
day  we  worked  and  talked,  and  thought 
little  of  conflagrations,  but  when  night  came 
on  we  were  seized  with  fear.  The  owner 
of  the  property  was  often  absent  in  the  town. 
Then  for  whole  nights  we  slept  not  a  wink, 
but  in  fear  and  trembling  made  our  rounds 
of  the  homestead  in  search  of  an  incendiary. 
We  huddled  close  together  and  spoke  in 
whispers  ;  but  the  night  was  still,  and  the 
buildings  stood  out  in  dark,  unfamiliar  masses. 
They  seemed  to  us  as  strange,  as  if  we  had 
never  seen  them  before,  and  terribly  un- 
stable, as  though  they  were  expecting  the 
fire  and  were  already  ripe  for  it.  Once, 
through  a  crack  in  the  wall,  there  gleamed 
before  us  something  bright.  It  was  the  sky, 
but  we  thought  it  was  a  fire,  and  with  screams 
the  womenkind  rushed  to  me,  who  was  still 
almost  a  boy,  and  entreated  my  protection. 


THE  TOCSIN  219 

But  I — held  my  breath  for  fear,  and  could 
not  move  a  step. 

Sometimes  in  the  depth  of  night  I  would 
rise  from  my  hot,  tumbled  bed  and  creep 
through  the  window  into  the  garden.  It  was 
an  ancient,  formal  and  stately  garden,  so 
protected  that  it  answered  the  very  fiercest 
storm  with  nothing  more  than  a  suppressed 
drone.  Below  it  was  dark  and  deadly  still 
as  at  the  bottom  of  an  abyss ;  but  above 
there  was  a  continual  indistinct  rustling  and 
sound,  like  the  far-off  speech  of  the  steppe. 
Concealing  myself  from  some  one,  who  seemed 
to  be  following  at  my  heels,  and  looking  over 
my  shoulder,  I  would  make  my  way  to  the 
end  of  the  garden,  where  upon  a  high  bank 
stood  a  wattle-fence,  and  beyond  the  fence 
far  below  extended  fields  and  forests  and 
hamlets  hidden  in  the  darkness.  Lofty, 
gloomy,  silent  lime-trees  opened  out  before 
me,  and  between  their  thick  black  stems, 
through  the  interstices  of  the  fence,  and 
through  the  space  between  the  leaves  I  could 
see  something  terrible,  extraordinary,  which 
would  fill  my  heart  with  an  uneasy  dread 
feeling,  and  make  my  legs  twitch  with  a 
slight  tremor.  I  could  see  the  sky,  not  the 
dark,  still  sky  of  night,  but  rosy-red,  such  as 
is  neither  by  day  nor  night.  The  mighty 
limes  stood  grave  and  silent,  like  men  ex- 


220  THE  TOCSIN 

pecting  something,  but  the  sky  was  unnatur- 
ally rosy,  and  the  ominous  reflection  of  the 
burning  earth  beneath  darted  in  fiery  red 
spasms  about  the  sky.  And  curling  columns 
would  go  slowly  up  and  disappear  in  the 
height ;  and  it  was  a  puzzle,  as  strangely 
unnatural  as  the  pink  colouring  of  the  sky, 
how  they  could  be  so  silent,  when  below  all 
was  gnashing  of  teeth ;  how  they  could  be 
so  unhurried  and  stately  there  above,  when 
everything  was  tossing  in  restless  confusion 
here  below. 

As  though  coming  to  themselves  the  lofty 
limes  would  all  at  once  begin  to  talk  together 
with  their  tops,  and  then  suddenly  relapse 
into  silence,  congealed,  as  it  were,  for  a  long 
time  in  sullen  expectation.  It  would  become 
still  as  at  the  bottom  of  an  abyss,  while  far 
behind  me  I  felt  conscious  of  the  house  on  the 
alert,  full  of  frightened  people  ;  the  limes 
crowded  watchfully  around  me,  and  in  front 
silently  rocked  a  rose-red  sky,  such  as  is  not 
nor  by  night  nor  day. 

And  because  I  saw  it  not  as  a  whole,  but 
only  through  the  interstices  between  the  trees, 
it  was  all  the  more  terrible  and  incompre- 
hensible. 


II 


IT  was  night  and  I  was  dosing  restlessly, 
when  there  reached  my  ear  a  dull  staccato 
sound,  rising  as  it  seemed  from  below  the 
ground  ;  it  penetrated  my  brain,  and  settled 
there  like  a  round  stone.  After  it  another 
forced  its  way  in,  equally  short  and  dolorous, 
and  my  head  became  heavy  and  sick,  as 
though  molten  lead  were  falling  upon  it  in 
thick  drops.  The  drops  kept  boring  and 
burning  into  my  brain  ;  they  became  ever 
more  and  more,  and  soon  they  were  filling 
my  head  with  a  dripping  rain  of  impetuous 
staccato  sounds. 

'  Boom  !  boom  !  boom  !  '  Some  one  tall, 
strong  and  impatient  kept  jerking  out  from 
afar. 

I  opened  my  eyes,  and  at  once  understood 
that  it  was  the  alarm-bell,  and  that  Slobodi- 
shtchy,  the  next  village,  was  on  fire.  It  was 
dark  in  the  room  and  the  window  was  closed, 
and  yet  at  the  terrible  call  the  whole  room, 

221 


222  THE  TOCSIN 

with  its  furniture,  pictures  and  flowers,  went 
out,  as  it  were,  into  the  street,  and  no  longer 
was  one  conscious  of  wall  or  ceiling. 

I  do  not  remember  how  I  got  dressed,  and 
know  not  why  I  ran  on  alone  and  not  with 
the  others  ;  whether  it  was  that  they  forgot 
me,  or  I  did  not  remember  their  existence. 
The  tocsin  called  persistently  and  dully,  as 
though  its  sounds  were  falling,  not  from  the 
transparent  air,  but  were  cast  forth  from  the 
immeasurable  thickness  of  the  earth.  I  ran 
on. 

Amid  the  rosy  sheen  of  the  sky  the  stars 
twinkled  above  my  head,  and  in  the  garden 
it  was  strangely  light,  such  as  is  neither  by 
day,  nor  by  majestic,  moon-lit  night,  but 
when  I  reached  the  hedge  something  bright- 
red,  seething,  tossing  desperately,  looked 
up  at  me  through  the  fissures.  The  lofty 
limes,  as  though  sprinkled  with  blood,  trem- 
bled in  their  rounded  leaves,  and  turned 
them  back  in  fear,  but  their  sound  was 
inaudible  on  account  of  the  short,  loud  strokes 
of  the  swinging  bell.  Now  the  sounds  became 
clear  and  distinct,  and  flew  with  mad  speed 
like  a  swarm  of  red-hot  stones.  They  did 
not  circle  in  the  air  like  the  doves  of  the 
peaceful  angelus,  neither  did  they  expand 
in  the  caressing  waves  of  the  solemn  call  to 
prayer  ;  they  flew  straight  like  grim  har- 


THE  TOCSIN  223 

bingers  of  woe,  who  have  no  time  to  glance 
backward  and  whose  eyes  are  wide  with 
terror. 

'  Boom  !  boom  !  boom  !  '  they  flew  with 
unrestrainable  impetuosity,  the  strong  over- 
taking the  weak,  and  all  of  them  together 
delving  into  the  earth  and  piercing  the 
sky. 

And,  as  straight  as  they,  I  ran  over  the 
immense  tilled  plain,  which  faintly  scintil- 
lated with  blood-red  gleams  like  the  scales  of 
a  great  black  wild-beast.  Above  my  head, 
at  a  wonderful  height,  bright  isolated  sparks 
floated  by,  and  in  front  was  one  of  those 
terrible  village  conflagrations,  in  which  in  one 
holocaust  perish  houses,  cattle  and  human 
beings.  There  behind  the  irregular  line  of 
dark  trees  now  round,  now  sharp  as  pikes, 
the  dazzling  flame  soared  aloft,  arched  its 
neck  proudly,  like  a  maddened  horse,  leaped, 
threw  burning  flocks  from  its  midst  into  the 
black  sky,  and  then  greedily  stooped  for 
fresh  prey.  The  blood  surged  in  my  ears 
with  the  swiftness  of  my  running,  and  my 
heart  beat  loud  and  rapidly  ;  but  the  irre- 
gular strokes  of  the  tocsin  overtook  my 
heart-beats  and  struck  me  full  on  head  and 
breast.  And  so  full  of  despair  was  it  that 
it  seemed  not  the  clanging  of  a  metal  bell, 
but  as  though  the  very  heart  of  the  much- 


224  THE  TOCSIN 

suffering  earth  were  beating  wildly  in  the 
agony  of  death. 

'  Boom  !  boom  !  boom  !  '  the  red-hot  con- 
flagration ejaculated.  And  it  was  difficult 
to  realize  that  the  church  belfry,  so  small 
and  slight,  so  peaceful  and  still,  like  a  maiden 
in  a  pink  dress,  could  be  giving  forth  those 
loud,  despairing  cries. 

I  kept  falling  down  on  my  hands  against 
clods  of  dry  earth,  which  scattered  beneath 
them,  and  again  I  would  rise  and  run  on, 
and  the  fire  and  the  summoning  sound  of 
the  bell  ran  to  meet  me.  One  could  already 
hear  the  wood  crackling  as  it  caught  fire, 
and  the  many-voiced  cry  of  human  beings 
with  the  dominating  notes  of  despair  and 
terror.  And  when  the  serpent-like  hissing 
of  the  fire  ceased  for  a  moment,  a  prolonged 
groaning  became  clearly  differentiated :  it 
was  the  wailing  of  women,  and  the  bellowing 
of  cattle  in  a  panic  of  terror. 

A  swamp  intercepted  my  path.  A  wide, 
weed-grown  swamp,  which  ran  far  to  right 
and  left.  I  went  into  the  water  up  to  my 
knees,  then  to  the  breast,  but  the  swamp 
began  to  suck  me  down,  and  I  returned  to  the 
bank.  Opposite,  quite  close,  raged  the  fire, 
throwing  up  into  the  sky  golden  sparks  like 
the  burning  leaves  of  a  gigantic  tree  :  while 
the  water  of  the  swamp  stood  out  like  a 


THE  TOCSIN  225 

mirror  sparkling  with  fire  in  a  black  frame  of 
reed  and  sedge.     The  tocsin  called,  despair- 
ingly in  deadly  agony  : 
'  Come  !  do  come  !  ' 


L.A.  225  15 


Ill 

I  FLUNG  along  the  strand,  and  my  dark 
shadow  flung  after  me,  and  when  I  stooped 
down  to  the  water  to  find  a  bottom,  the 
spectre  of  a  fire-red  form  gazed  at  me  from 
the  black  abyss,  and  in  the  distorted  linea- 
ments of  its  face,  and  in  its  dishevelled  hair, 
which  seemed  as  though  it  were  lifted  up 
upon  the  head  by  some  terrific  force,  I  failed 
to  recognize  myself. 

'  Ah  !  what  is  it  ?  O  Lord  !  '  I  prayed 
with  outstretched  hands. 

But  the  tocsin  kept  calling.  The  bell  no 
longer  entreated,  it  shouted  like  a  human 
being,  and  groaned  and  choked.  The  strokes 
had  lost  their  regularity,  and  piled  them- 
selves one  on  the  top  of  the  other,  rapidly 
and  without  echo  ;  they  died  down,  were 
reproduced  and  again  died  down.  Once  more 
I  bent  down  to  the  water,  and  alongside  of 
my  own  reflexion  I  perceived  another  fiery 
spectre,  tall  and  erect,  and  to  my  horror  just 
like  a  human  being. 

226 


THE  TOCSIN  227 

'  Who's  that  ?  '  I  screamed,  looking  round. 
Close  to  my  shoulder  stood  a  man  looking  at 
the  conflagration  in  silence.  His  face  was 
pale,  his  cheeks  were  covered  with  still  moist 
blood,  which  gleamed  as  it  reflected  the  fire. 
He  was  dressed  simply,  like  a  peasant.  Pos- 
sibly he  had  been  already  here  when  I  ran 
up,  and  had  been  stopped  like  myself  by  the 
swamp,  or  possibly  he  may  have  arrived 
after  me  ;  but  at  all  events  I  had  not  heard 
his  approach,  nor  did  I  know  who  he  was. 

'  It  burns,'  said  he,  without  removing  his 
eyes  from  the  fire.  The  reflected  fire  leapt 
in  them,  and  they  seemed  large  and  glassy. 

'  Who  are  you  ?  Where  do  you  come 
from  ? '  I  asked ;  '  you  are  all  bloody.' 
With  long,  thin  fingers  he  touched  my 
cheeks,  looked  at  them,  and  again  fixed  his 
gaze  upon  the  fire. 

'  It  burns,'  he  repeated,  without  paying 
any  attention  to  me.  '  Everything  is  burn- 
ing.' 

'  Do  you  know  how  to  get  there  ?  '  I  asked, 
drawing  back.  I  guessed  that  this  was  one 
of  the  many  maniacs,  which  this  ill-omened 
summer  had  produced. 

'  It  burns  !  '  he  replied  ;  '  ho  !  ho  !  don't 
it  burn  !  '  he  cried,  laughing,  and  looked  at 
me  kindly,  wagging  his  head.  The  hurried 
strokes  of  the  tocsin  suddenly  stopped,  and 


228  THE  TOCSIN 

the  flame  crackled  louder.  It  moved  like 
a  living  thing,  and  with  long  arms,  as  though 
weary,  dragged  itself  to  the  silent  belfry, 
which  now  seemed  near  and  tall,  and  clothed 
no  longer  in  pink  but  in  red.  Above  the 
dark  loop-hole,  where  the  bells  were  hung, 
there  appeared  a  timid  quiet  tongue  of  fire, 
like  the  flame  of  a  candle,  and  was  reflected 
in  pale  rays  on  their  metal  surface.  Once 
more  the  bell  began  to  tremble,  sending  forth 
its  last  madly-despairing  cries,  and  once 
more  I  flung  myself  along  the  shore,  and  my 
black  shadow  flung  after  me. 

'  I'm  coming,  I'm  coming !  '  I  cried,  as 
though  in  reply  to  some  one  calling  me. 
But  the  tall  man  was  quietly  seated  behind 
me,  embracing  his  knees,  and  kept  singing  a 
loud  secondo  to  the  bell :  '  Boom  !  boom  ! 
boom ! ' 

'  Are  you  mad  ?  '  I  shouted  to  him.  But 
he  only  sang  the  louder  and  the  merrier, 
1  Boom  !  boom  !  boom  ! ' 

'  Be  quiet !  '  I  entreated.  But  he  smiled 
and  sang  on,  wagging  his  head,  and  the  fire 
flared  up  in  his  glassy  eyes.  He  was  more 
terrible  than  the  fire,  this  maniac,  and  I 
turned  round  and  took  to  flight  along  the 
shore.  But  I  had  scarcely  gone  a  few  steps, 
when  his  lanky  figure  appeared  silently 
alongside  of  me,  his  shirt  fluttering  in  the 


THE  TOCSIN  229 

wind.  He  ran  in  silence,  even  as  I  did,  with 
long  untiring  strides,  and  in  silence  our  black 
shadows  ran  along  the  upturned  field. 

The  bell  was  suffocating  in  its  last  death- 
struggle  and  cried  out  like  a  human  being 
who,  despairing  of  assistance,  has  lost  all 
hope.  And  we  ran  on  in  silence  aimlessly 
into  the  darkness,  and  close  to  us  our  black 
shadows  leapt  mockingly. 


BARGAMOT    AND    GARASKA 

IT  would  be  unjust  to  say  that  Nature  had 
injured  Ivan  Akindinich  Bargamotov,  who 
in  his  official  capacity  was  called  '  Constable 
No.  20,'  and  unofficially  simply  Bargamotov. 
The  inhabitants  of  one  of  the  outskirts  of 
the  provincial  towns  of  Orel,  who  in  their 
turn  were  nicknamed  '  gunners/  from  the 
name  of  their  abode  (Gunner  Street)  and, 
from  the  moral  side  were  characterized  as 
'  broken-headed  gunners,'  when  they  dubbed 
Ivan  Akindinovich  '  Bargamot,'  were  with- 
out doubt  not  thinking  of  the  qualities  which 
belong  to  such  a  delicate  and  delicious  fruit 
as  the  fyergamot.  By  his  exterior  Bargamot 
reminded  one  rather  of  the  mastodon,  or 
of  any  of  those  engaging,  but  extinct  crea- 
tures, which  for  want  of  room  have  long 
ago  deserted  a  world  already  filling  up  with 
flaccid  little  humans.  Tall,  stout,  strong, 
loud-voiced  Bargamot  loomed  big  on  the 
police  horizon,  and  certainly  would  long  ago 

231 


232      BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

have  attained  notable  rank,  if  only  his  soul, 
compressed  within  those  stout  walls,  had 
not  been  sunk  in  an  heroic  sleep. 

Outward  impressions  in  passing  to  Bar- 
gamot's  soul  by  means  of  his  little  iat- 
encased  eyes,  lost  all  their  sharpness  and 
force,  and  arrived  at  their  destination  only 
in  the  form  of  feeble  echoes  and  reflexions. 
A  person  of  sublime  requirements  would  have 
called  him  a  lump  of  flesh ;  his  superior 
officers  called  him  a  '  stock/  but  a  useful 
one — while  to  the  '  gunners,'  the  persons 
most  interested  in  this  question,  he  was  a 
staid,  serious  matter-of-fact  man,  one  worthy 
of  every  respect  and  consideration.  What 
Bargamot  knew  he  knew  well,  were  it  only  a 
policeman's  instructions,  which  he  had  assimi- 
lated some  time  or  other  with  all  the  energy 
of  his  mighty  frame,  and  which  had  sunk  so 
deep  into  his  sluggish  brain,  that  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  rout  them  out  again, 
even  with  vitriol.  Nevertheless  certain 
truths  occupied  a  permanent  position  in  his 
soul,  truths  acquired  by  way  of  life's  experi- 
ence, and  unconditionally  dominating  the 
situation. 

Of  that  which  Bargamot  did  not  know  he 
kept  such  an  imperturbably  stolid  silence, 
that  people  who  did  know  it  became  some- 
how or  other  somewhat  ashamed  of  their 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA     233 

knowledge.  But  the  chief  point  was  this 
that  Bargamot  was  enormously  powerful ; 
and  might  was  right  in  Gunner  Street,  a 
slum  inhabited  by  shoemakers,  tailors  who 
worked  at  home,  and  the  representatives  of 
other  '  liberal '  professions.  Owning  two 
public  houses,  uproarious  on  Sundays  and 
Mondays,  Gunner  Street  devoted  all  its 
leisure  hours  to  Homeric  fights,  in  which  the 
women,  bare-headed  and  dishevelled,  took 
immediate  part  (as  they  separated  their 
husbands),  and  also  the  little  children,  who 
gazed  with  delight  on  the  daring  of  their 
papas. 

All  this  rough  wave  of  drunken  '  gunners ' 
beat  against  the  immovable  Bargamot  as 
against  a  stone  breakwater,  while  he  would 
deliberately  seize  with  his  mighty  hands  a 
pair  of  the  most  desperate  rowdies  and 
personally  conduct  them  to  the  '  lock  up/ 
and  the  rowdies  would  obediently  submit 
their  fate  to  the  hands  of  Bargamot,  pro- 
testing merely  for  the  sake  of  appearances. 

Such  was  Bargamot  in  the  domain  of 
international  relations.  In  the  sphere  of 
home  politics  he  held  himself  with  no  less 
dignity.  The  small  tumble-down  cottage, 
in  which  Bargamot  lived  with  his  wife  and 
two  young  children,  and  which  with  difficulty 
afforded  room  for  his  mighty  body,  and 


234      BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

trembled  with  craziness  and  with  fear  for  its 
own  existence  whenever  Bargamot  turned 
round,  might  be  at  ease,  if  not  with  regard 
to  its  own  wooden  structure,  at  all  events 
in  respect  of  the  family  unity. 

Domestic,  careful,  and  fond  of  digging  in 
his  garden  on  free  days,  Bargamot  was  severe. 
He  instructed  his  wife  and  children  through 
the  same  medium  of  physical  influence,  not 
conforming  so  much  to  the  actual  require- 
ments of  science  as  to  certain  indefinite  pre- 
scriptions on  that  score  which  existed  in  the 
ramifications  of  his  big  head.  This  did  not 
prevent  his  wife  Marya,  who  was  still  a  young 
and  handsome  woman,  on  the  one  hand  from 
respecting  her  husband  as  a  steady,  sober 
man,  and  on  the  other,  in  spite  of  all  his 
massiveness,  from  twisting  him  round  her 
finger  with  that  ease  and  force  of  which  only 
weak  women  are  capable. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  on  a  warm  spring 
evening  Bargamot  stood  at  his  usual  post 
at  the  corner  of  Gunner  Street  and  the  3rd 
Garden  Street.  He  was  in  a  bad  humour. 
To-morrow  was  Easter  Day,  and  soon  people 
would  be  going  to  church,  while  he  would 
have  to  stand  on  duty  till  3  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  would  only  get  home  in  time 
for  the  conclusion  of  the  fast.  Bargamot 
did  not  feel  any  need  of  prayer,  but  the  bright 


kARGAMOT  AND   GARASKA     235 

holiday  air  which  permeated  the  unusually 
peaceful  and  quiet  street  affected  even  him. 

He  did  not  like  the  spot  on  which  he  had 
stood  still  every  day  for  a  matter  of  ten  years. 
He  felt  a  desire  to  do  something  of  a  holiday 
character  such  as  others  were  doing.  And  in 
view  of  these  uneasy  feelings  there  arose  with- 
in him  a  certain  discontent  and  impatience. 
Moreover  he  was  hungry.  His  wife  had 
given  him  no  dinner  at  all  that  day,  and 
so  he  had  had  to  put  up  with  a  few  sups  of 
kvass  and  bread.  His  great  stomach  was 
insistently  demanding  food ;  and  how  long 
it  was  still  to  the  conclusion  of  the  fast ! 

Ptu  ! — spat  Bargamot,  as  he  made  a  cigar- 
ette and  began  reluctantly  to  suck  at  it.  At 
home  he  had  some  good  cigarettes,  presented 
to  him  by  a  local  shop-keeper,  but  he  was 
reserving  them  till  the  conclusion  of  the  fast. 

Soon  the  '  gunners  '  drew  along  towards 
the  church,  clean  and  respectable  in  jackets 
and  waistcoats  over  red  and  blue  flannel 
shirts,  and  in  long  boots  with  innumerable 
creases,  and  high  pointed  heels.  To-morrow 
all  this  splendour  was  destined  to  disappear 
behind  the  counter  of  the  '  pub/  or  to  be  torn 
in  pieces  in  a  friendly  struggle  for  harmony. 

But  for  to-day  the  '  gunners '  were  re- 
splendent. Each  one  carefully  carried  a 
parcel  of  paschal  cakes.  None  took  any 


236      BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

notice  of  Bargamot,  neither  did  he  look  with 
especial  love  on  his  '  god-children/  and  un- 
easily prognosticated  how  many  times  he 
would  have  to  make  a  journey  to-morrow 
to  the  police  station. 

In  fact,  he  was  jealous  that  they  were  free 
and  could  go  where  it  was  bright,  noisy 
and  cheerful,  while  he  was  stuck  there  like 
a  penitent. 

'  Here  I  have  to  stand  because  of  you, 
drunkards/  muttered  he,  summing  up  his 
thoughts,  and  spat  once  more — he  felt  a 
hollow  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 

The  street  was  becoming  empty.  The 
Eucharistic  bell  had  ceased.  Then  the  joyful 
changes  of  the  treble  peal,  so  cheerful  after 
the  melancholy  tolling  of  the  Lenten  bells, 
spread  over  the  world  the  joyful  news  of 
Christ's  resurrection.  Bargamot  took  off  his 
hat  and  crossed  himself.  Soon  he  would  be 
going  home.  He  became  more  cheerful  as 
he  imagined  to  himself  the  table  laid  with  a 
clean  cloth,  the  paschal  cakes  and  the  eggs. 
He  would  without  hurry  give  to  all  the 
Easter  salutation.  They  would  wake  up 
Jack  and  bring  him  in,  and  he  would  at  once 
demand  the  coloured  egg,  about  which  he 
had  held  circumstantial  conversations  the 
whole  week  through  with  his  more  experi- 
enced little  sister.  Oh,  how  he'll  open  wide 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA     237 

his  mouth  when  his  father  brings  him,  not 
the  bright  dyed  egg,  but  the  real  marble  one, 
which  the  same  obliging  shop-keeper  had 
presented  to  Bargamot ! 

'  Dear  little  chap  !  '  said  Bargamot  with 
a  smile,  feeling  a  sort  of  paternal  tenderness 
welling  up  from  the  depths  of  his  soul. 

But  Bargamot's  placidity  was  broken  in 
on  in  the  most  abject  manner.  Round  the 
corner  were  heard  uneven  footsteps  and  low 
mutterings. 

'  Who  the  devil  is  coming  here  ?  '  thought 
Bargamot,  looking  round  the  corner  and 
feeling  injured  in  his  very  soul. 

'  Garaska  !  Yes,  drunk  as  usual !  Well, 
that's  a  finisher  !  ' 

It  was  a  mystery  to  Bargamot  how  Garaska 
could  have  managed  to  get  drunk  before 
daylight,  but  of  the  fact  of  his  drunkenness 
there  was  no  doubt.  His  behaviour,  mysteri- 
ous as  it  would  have  been  to  an  outsider,  was 
perfectly  clear  to  Bargamot,  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  '  Gunner  '  soul  in  general, 
and  with  the  low  nature  of  Garaska  in  par- 
ticular. Attracted  by  an  irresistible  force 
from  the  middle  of  the  street,  in  which  he 
had  the  habit  of  walking,  he  was  pressed 
close  to  the  hoarding.  Supporting  himself 
with  both  hands,  and  contemplating  the  wall 
with  a  concentrated  air  of  inquiry,  Garaska 


238      BARGAMOT  AND   GARASKA 

staggered,  while  he  gathered  up  his  strength 
for  a  fresh  struggle  with  any  unexpected 
impediments  he  might  meet  with. 

After  a  short  but  intense  meditation  he 
pushed  himself  energetically  from  the  wall, 
and  staggered  backwards  into  the  middle  of 
the  street,  made  a  deliberate  turn,  and  set 
out  with  long  strides  into  space,  which  turned 
out  to  be  not  quite  so  endless  as  it  has  been 
said  to  be,  but  was  in  fact  bounded  by  a  mass 
of  lamps. 

With  the  first  of  these,  Garaska  came  into 
the  closest  relations,  and  clasped  it  in  the 
firm  embrace  of  friendship. 

'  A  lamp  !  Stop  !  '  said  he  curtly,  as  he 
established  the  accomplished  fact.  Quite 
unusually,  of  course,  Garaska  was  in  an 
excessively  good  humour.  Instead  of  heap- 
ing well-deserved  objurgations  upon  the  lamp- 
post he  turned  to  it  with  mild  reproaches, 
with  contained  some  touches  of  familiarity. 

'  Stand  still,  you  silly  ass,  where  are  you 
going  to  ?  '  he  muttered  as  he  staggered 
away  from  the  lamp-post,  and  again  fell 
with  his  whole  chest  upon  it,  almost  flattening 
his  nose  against  its  cold  damp  surface. 

'  That's  right  !  eh  ?  '  and  by  clinging  with 
half  his  length  along  the  post  he  managed 
to  hold  on,  and  sank  into  a  reverie. 

Bargamot  contemptuously  compressed  his 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA     239 

lips,  as  he  looked  down  on  Garaska  from  his 
superior  height.  Nobody  annoyed  him  so 
much  in  the  whole  of  Gunner  Street  as  this 
wretched  toper.  To  look  at  him — one  would 
not  have  thought  there  was  any  strength  in 
him,  and  yet  he  was  the  greatest  scandal  in 
the  whole  neighbourhood. 

He's  not  a  man,  but  an  ulcer  !  A  '  gunner  ' 
gets  drunk,  makes  a  disturbance,  spends  the 
night  in  the  lock-up,  and  he  gets  over  all 
this  like  a  gentleman — but  Garaska  always 
does  it  stealthily,  and  of  malice  prepense. 
He  may  be  beaten  half  to  death  or  nearly 
starved  at  the  police  station,  still  they  can 
never  break  him  of  bad  language,  of  his  most 
offensively  foul  tongue. 

He  will  stand  under  the  windows  of  any 
of  the  most  respectable  people  in  Gunner 
Street,  and  begin  to  swear  without  rhyme 
or  reason.  The  shopmen  seize  Garaska  and 
beat  him — the  crowd  laughs  and  advises 
them  to  give  it  him  hot.  Garaska  would 
revile  even  Bargamot  himself  in  such  fan- 
tastically realistic  language,  that  without 
understanding  all  the  subtleties  of  his  wit, 
he  felt  himself  more  insulted,  than  if  he  had 
been  whipped. 

How  Garaska  got  his  living,  remained  to 
the  '  gunners  '  one  of  those  mysteries  which 
enveloped  his  whole  existence.  Certainly 


240      BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

no  one  had  ever  seen  him  sober.  He  lived, 
or  rather  camped  about  in  the  orchards,  or 
the  river-bank,  or  under  shrubs.  In  winter 
he  disappeared  to  somewhere  or  other,  and 
with  the  first  breath  of  spring  he  reappeared. 
What  attracted  him  to  Gunner  Street,  where 
it  was  every  one's  business  to  beat  him,  was 
again  a  profound  mystery  of  Garaska's  soul, 
but  get  rid  of  him  they  could  not.  They 
strongly  suspected,  and  that  not  without 
reason,  that  he  was  a  thief,  but  they  could 
not  take  him  in  the  act,  so  he  was  beaten  on 
merely  circumstantial  evidence. 

On  this  occasion  Garaska  had  evidently 
a  difficult  path  to  negotiate.  The  rags,  which 
made  a  pretence  of  seriously  covering  his 
emaciated  body,  were  all  over  still  undried 
mud. 

His  face,  with  its  big,  bulbous  red  nose, 
which  was  incontestably  one  of  the  causes 
of  his  unstable  equilibrium,  was  covered 
with  an  irregularly  distributed  watery  growth, 
and  gave  substantial  evidence  of  its  close 
relations  with  alcohol  and  a  neighbour's 
fist.  On  his  cheek  near  the  eye  was  a  scratch 
of  evidently  recent  origin. 

He  succeeded  at  last  in  parting  company 
with  the  lamp-post,  and  when  he  observed 
the  dignified  silent  figure  of  Bargamot  he 
was  overjoyed. 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA  241 

'  Our  best  respects  to  you,  Bargamot  Bar- 
gamotich — we  hope  we  see  you  well !  '  said 
he  with  a  polite  wave  of  the  hand,  but  he 
staggered,  and  was  fain  to  prop  himself  up 
with  his  back  against  the  lamp-post. 

'  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  '  growled  Bar- 
gamot saturninely. 

'  We're  orl  righ' !  ' 

'  On  the  old  lay,  eh  ?  Or  do  you  want  a 
doss  in  the  cells.  You  wretch,  I'll  run  you 
in  at  once.' 

'  No,  you  don't ! ' 

Garaska  was  just  going  to  make  a  gesture 
of  defiance,  when  he  wisely  restrained  himself, 
spat  and  rubbed  his  foot  about  on  the  ground 
as  though  to  rub  out  the  spittle. 

'  You  can  talk  when  you  get  to  the  police 
station  !  March  !  ' 

Bargamot 's  mighty  hand  stretched  out  to 
Garaska's  collar,  so  greasy  in  fact  that  it 
was  evident  that  Bargamot  was  not  his  first 
guide  on  the  thorny  path  of  well-doing. 
Giving  the  drunken  man  a  slight  shake,  and 
propelling  his  body  in  the  required  direction, 
and  at  the  same  time  giving  it  a  certain 
stability,  Bargamot  dragged  him  towards 
the  above-mentioned  gaol,  just  as  a  strong 
hawser  might  tow  after  it  a  very  light  schooner, 
which  had  met  with  an  accident  outside  the 
harbour.  He  considered  himself  deeply  in- 


242      BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

jured,  instead  of  enjoying  his  well-earned 
rest,  to  have  to  drag  himself  with  this  drunk- 
ard to  the  station. 

Ugh  !  Bargamot 's  hands  itched — but  the 
consciousness  that  on  such  a  high  festival  it 
would  be  unseemly  to  let  them  have  their 
way,  restrained  him.  Garaska  strode  on 
bravely,  mingling  in  a  remarkable  manner 
self-confidence,  and  even  insolence,  with  meek- 
ness. He  evidently  harboured  some  thought 
of  his  own,  which  he  began  to  approach  by 
the  Socratic  method. 

'  Tell  me,  Mr.  Policeman,  what  is  to- 
day ?' 

1  Won't  you  shut  up  !  '  Bargamot  replied 
in  contempt.  '  Drunk  before  daylight !  ' 

'  Has  the  bell  at  Michael  the  Archangel's 
rung  yet  ? ' 

'  Yes,  what's  that  to  you  ?  ' 

*  Then  Christ  is  risen  !  ' 

'  Well,  He  is  risen.' 

'  Then  allow  me '  Garaska  was  carry- 
ing on  this  conversation  half  twisted  towards 
Bargamot,  and  with  his  face  resolutely  turned 
to  him.  Bargamot,  interested  by  the  strange 
questions,  mechanically  let  go  the  greasy 
collar.  Garaska,  losing  his  support,  stag- 
gered and  fell  before  he  could  show  to  Barga- 
mot an  object  which  he  had  just  taken  out 
of  his  pocket.  Raising  his  great  shoulders, 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA      243 

as  he  supported  himself  on  his  hands,  Garaska 
looked  on  the  ground,  then  fell  face  down- 
wards, and  began  to  wail,  as  a  peasant  woman 
wails  for  the  dead. 

Garaska  howling !  Bargamot  was  sur- 
prised, but  deciding  that  it  must  be  some 
new  joke  of  his,  he  still  felt  interested  as  to 
developments.  The  development  was  that 
Garaska  continued  howling  without  words, 
just  like  a  dog. 

'  What's  up  now  ?  Off  your  nut,  eh  ?  ' 
said  Bargamot  as  he  gave  him  a  shove  with 
his  foot.  He  went  on  howling.  Bargamot 
was  in  a  dilemma. 

'  What's  got  yer,  eh  ?  ' 

'  The  eg— g.' 

'  Well  ?  ' 

Garaska  went  on  howling,  but  less  noisily, 
he  sat  down  and  lifted  up  his  hand.  The 
hand  was  covered  with  something  sticky, 
to  which  adhered  pieces  of  coloured  egg-shell. 
Bargamot  still  in  doubt,  began  to  have  an 
inkling  that  something  untoward  had  taken 
place. 

'  I like    a     gentleman to     present 

—Easter  egg but  you '  blubbered 

Garaska  disconnectedly ;  but  Bargamot 
understood. 

It  was  evident  what  had  been  Garaska's 
intention.  He  wished  to  present  him  with  an 


244     BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

Easter  egg  according  to  Christian  usage, 
and  Bargamot  was  for  taking  him  to  gaol. 
Perhaps  he  had  brought  the  egg  a  long  way, 
and  now  it  was  broken — and  he  was  crying. 
Bargamot  imagined  to  himself  that  the 
marble  egg  he  was  keeping  for  Jack  was 
broken,  and  how  sorry  it  made  him. 

'  'Ere's  a  go  !  '  said  Bargamot  shaking  his 
head,  as  he  looked  at  the  wallowing  drunkard, 
and  pitied  him  as  intensely  as  he  would  have 
pitied  a  man  cruelly  wronged  by  his  own 
brother. 

'  He  was  going  to  present '  '  He  is 

also  a  living  soul/  muttered  the  policeman, 
striving  albeit  clumsily  to  render  the  state 
of  affairs  clear  to  himself,  and  feeling  a  mix- 
ture of  shame  and  pity,  which  became  more 
and  more  oppressive. 

'  And  you  would  have  run  him  in  !  Shame 
on  you ! ' 

Sighing  heavily  as  he  bent  down  he  knocked 
his  short  sword  against  a  stone,  and  sat  down 
on  his  heels  near  to  Garaska. 

'  Well,'  he  muttered  in  confusion,  '  perhaps 
it  is  not  broken/ 

'  Not  broken !  Why  yer  was  ready  to 
break  my  snout  for  me.  Brute  !  ' 

'  But  what  did  you  shove  for !  ' 

'  What  for mimicked  Garaska.  '  I 

was  going like  a  gentleman  to and  him 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA  245 

to the  lock  up.  Think  that's  my  last 

egg  ?  Yer  lump  !  ' 

Bargamot  sniffed.  He  did  not  feel  in  the 
least  hurt  by  Garaska's  abuse  ;  through  his 
whole  ill-organized  interior  he  felt  a  sort  of 
half  pity,  half  shame,  while  in  the  remotest 
depths  of  his  stout  body  something  kept 
tiresomely  wimbling  and  torturing. 

'  Can  one  help  giving  you  a  thrashing  ?  ' 
said  Bargamot,  more  to  himself  than  to 
Garaska. 

'  Not  you,  you  garden  scarecrow !  Now 
look  'ere/ 

Garaska  was  evidently  falling  into  his 
usual  groove.  In  his  somewhat  clearing 
brain  he  was  picturing  to  himself  a  whole 
perspective  of  the  most  compromising  terms 
of  abuse,  and  most  insulting  epithets,  when 
Bargamot  cleared  his  throat  with  a  sound 
which  left  not  the  slightest  doubt  as  to  the 
firmness  of  his  determination  and  declared: 

'  We'll  go  to  my  house,  and  break  the  fast.' 

'  What !  go  to  your  house,  you  tubby  devil !  ' 

'  Let's  go,  I  say.' 

Garaska's  surprise  was  boundless.  Quite 
passively  he  allowed  himself  to  be  lifted  up 
and  led  by  the  hand,  and  he  went — but 
whither  ?  Not  to  the  lock-up,  but  to  the 
house  of  Bargamot  himself — actually  to  eat 
his  Easter  breakfast  there !  A  seductive 


246   BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

thought  came  into  his  head — to  give  Barga- 
mot  the  slip,  but  though  his  head  had  become 
cleared  by  the  very  unusualness  of  the  situa- 
tion his  feet  still  remained  in  such  evil  case, 
that  they  seemed  sworn  to  perpetually  cling 
to  one  another,  and  to  prevent  each  other 
from  walking. 

Then,  too,  Bargamot  was  such  a  wonder 
that  Garaska,  truth  to  tell,  did  not  want  to 
get  away. 

Bargamot,  twisting  his  tongue,  and  search- 
ing for  words  and  stuttering,  now  propounded 
to  him  the  instructions  for  a  policeman, 
and  now  reverting  to  the  special  question 
of  thrashing,  and  the  lock-up,  deciding  in  his 
own  mind  in  the  positive,  and  at  the  same 
time  in  the  negative. 

'  You  say  truly,  Ivan  Akindinich,  we  must 
be  beaten,'  acknowledged  Garaska,  feeling 
even  a  sort  of  awkwardness.  Bargamot  was 
a  sore  wonder  ! 

'  No,  I  don't  mean  to  do  that,'  mumbled 
Bargamot,  evidently  understanding,  even  less 
than  Garaska,  what  his  woolly  tongue  was 
babbling. 

They  arrived  at  last  at  Bargamot's  house 
— and  Garaska  had  already  ceased  to  wonder. 
Marya  at  first  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  the 
sight  of  the  unwonted  couple,  but  she  guessed 
from  her  husband's  perturbed  look,  that 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA      247 

there  was  no  room  for  objections,  and  in  her 
womanly  kindheartedness  quickly  understood 
what  she  was  expected  to  do. 

Quieted  and  confused,  Garaska  sat  down 
at  the  decorated  table.  He  felt  ashamed 
enough  to  sink  into  the  ground.  Ashamed 
of  his  rags,  of  his  dirty  hands,  ashamed  of 
his  whole  self,  torn,  drunken,  disgusting  as 
he  was.  Scalding  himself  with  the  deuced 
hot  soup,  swimming  with  fat,  he  spilt  it  on 
the  table-cloth,  and  although  the  hostess 
with  delicacy  pretended  not  to  have  noticed 
it,  he  grew  confused  and  spilt  still  more.  So 
unbearably  did  those  shrivelled  fingers  tremble 
with  those  great  dirty  nails,  which  Garaska 
now  noticed  for  the  first  time. 

*  Ivan  Akindinich,  what  surprise  have  you 
for  Jacky  ?  '  asked  Marya. 

'  Never  mind later  on/  hurriedly  replied 

Bargamot.  He  was  scalding  himself  with  the 
soup,  blew  on  his  spoon,  and  stolidly  wiped 
his  moustache — but  through  all  this  solidity 
the  same  amazement  was  apparent,  as  in  the 
case  of  Garaska. 

Marya  hospitably  pressed  her  guest  to  eat. 

'  Garasim,'  she  said,  '  how  are  you  called 
after  your  father's  name  ?  ' 

'  Andreich.' 

'  Welcome,  Garasim  Andreich/ 

Garaska,    in    endeavouring    to    swallow, 


248      BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

choked,  and  throwing  down  his  spoon,  dropped 
his  head  on  the  table,  right  on  the  greasy 
spot  which  he  had  just  made.  From  his 
breast  there  escaped  again  that  rough,  pite- 
ous howl,  which  had  before  so  disturbed 
Bargamot. 

The  children,  who  had  almost  left  off 
taking  any  notice  of  the  guest,  dropped  their 
spoons  and  joined  their  treble  to  his  tenor. 
Bargamot  looked  at  his  wife  with  a  troubled 
and  woeful  expression. 

'  Now,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Garasim 
Andreich.  Leave  off/  said  she,  trying  to 
quiet  the  perturbed  guest. 

'  By  my  father's  name  !  Since  I  was  born 
no  one  ever  called  me  so ! ' 


"MEN    MAY   RISE    ON   STEPPING- 
STONES  OF  THEIR   DEAD  SELVES 
TO  HIGHER  THINGS  " 

HAVE  you  ever  happened  to  walk  in  a  burial- 
ground  ? 

Those  little  walled-in,  quiet  corners,  over- 
grown with  luscious  grass,  so  small,  and  yet 
so  ravenous,  possess  a  peculiar  dolorous 
poetry  all  their  own. 

Day  after  day  thither  are  borne  new  corpses, 
a  whole,  immense,  living,  noisy  city  has  been 
already  borne  thither  one  by  one,  and  lo  ! 
the  new  city  which  has  grown  in  its  place  is 
awaiting  its  turn — and  the  little  corners 
remain  ever  the  same,  small,  still,  ravenous. 

The  peculiar  air  in  them,  the  peculiar 
silence,  and  the  lisping  of  the  trees  different 
there  to  anywhere  else,  are  all  mournful, 
pensive,  tender.  It  is  as  though  those  white 
birches  could  not  forget  all  those  weeping 
eyes,  which  have  sought  the  sky  betwixt 
their  green  branches,  and  as  though  it  were 

249 


250  STEPPING-STONES 

no  wind,  but  deep  sighs  which  keep  swaying 
the  air  and  the  fresh  leaves. 

You,  too,  wander  about  the  graveyard 
silent  and  pensive.  Your  ear  is  conscious 
of  the  gentle  echoes  of  deep  groans  and  tears, 
while  your  eyes  rest  on  rich  monuments,  and 
modest  wooden  crosses ;  and  the  unmarked 
tombs  of  strangers,  covering  their  dead,  who 
were  strangers  when  living,  unmarked,  un- 
observed. And  you  read  the  inscriptions 
on  the  monuments,  and  all  these  people  who 
have  disappeared  from  the  world  rise  up 
in  your  imagination.  You  see  them  young, 
laughing,  loving  ;  you  see  them  hale,  loqua- 
cious, insolently  confident  in  the  endlessness 
of  life. 

And  they  are  dead. 

***** 

But  is  it  necessary  to  go  out  of  one's  house 
to  visit  a  burial  ground  ?  Is  it  not  sufficient 
for  this  purpose,  that  the  darkness  of  night 
should  envelop  you,  and  have  swallowed  up 
all  the  sounds  of  day  ? 

How  many  rich  and  sumptuous  monu- 
ments !  How  many  unmarked  graves  of 
strangers  ! 

But  is  night  needful  in  order  to  visit  a 
graveyard  ?  Is  not  daytime  enough — rest- 
less, noisy  day,  sufficient  unto  which  is  the 
evil  thereof  ? 


STEPPING-STONES  251 

Look  into  your  own  soul,  and  then,  be  it 
day  or  night,  you  will  find  there  a  burial 
ground.  Small  greedy,  having  devoured  so 
much !  And  a  gentle,  sorrowful,  whisper 
will  ye  hear,  an  echo  of  bygone  heavy  groans 
when  the  dead  was  dear,  whom  ye  left  in  the 
tomb,  and  could  not  forget  nor  cease  to  love. 
And  monuments  ye  will  see,  and  inscriptions 
half  blotted  out  with  tears  ;  and  still,  ob- 
scure, little  tombs ;  small  and  ominous 
mounds,  under  which  is  hidden  something 
which  once  was  living,  although  ye  knew  not 
its  life,  nor  remarked  its  death.  But,  may- 
be, it  was  the  very  best  in  your  soul . 

But  why  talk  about  it  ?  Look  for  your- 
selves. And  have  you  not  indeed  thus  looked 
into  your  burial-ground  every  day,  every 
single  day  of  the  long,  weary  year  ?  Maybe 
as  late  as  yesterday  you  recalled  the  dear 
departed,  and  wept  over  them.  Maybe  only 
yesterday  you  buried  some  one  who  had 
long  been  seriously  ill,  and  had  been  forgotten 
even  in  life. 

Lo  !  under  the  heavy  marble  surrounded 
by  iron  rails  rests  Love  of  mankind,  and  her 
sister  Faith  in  them.  How  beautiful  were 
they,  and  wondrous  kind — these  sisters.  What 
bright  light  burned  in  their  eyes,  what  strange 
power  was  wielded  by  their  tender,  white 
hands ! 


252  STEPPING-STONES 

With  what  a  caress  did  those  white  hands 
bring  the  cold  drink  to  lips  burning  with 
thirst,  and  did  feed  the  hungry.  With  what 
gentle  care  did  they  touch  the  sores  of  the 
sick,  and  healed  them  ! 

And  they  are  dead,  these  sisters.  They 
died  of  cold,  as  is  said  on  the  monument. 
They  could  not  bear  the  icy  wind  in  which 
life  enveloped  them. 

And  there,  further  on,  a  slanting  cross 
marks  the  place  where  a  Talent  is  buried  in 
the  earth.  How  bold  it  was,  how  noisy,  how 
happy  !  It  undertook  anything,  wished  to 
do  everything,  and  was  confident  that  it 
could  conquer  the  world. 

And  it  is  dead — died  but  lately,  quietly, 
and  unnoticed.  One  day  it  went  among  men, 
for  long  it  was  lost  there,  and  it  came  back 
defeated,  sad.  Long  it  wept,  long  it  strove 
to  say  something,  and  then  without  having 
said  it — died. 

And  here  is  a  long  row  of  little  sunken 
mounds.  Who  lies  here  ? 

Ah  !  yes.  These  are  children.  Little,  keen, 
sportive  Hopes.  There  were  so  many  of 
them,  they  were  so  merry,  and  the  soul  was 
peopled  with  them.  But  one  by  one  they 
died.  They  were  so  many,  and  they  made 
such  merriment  in  the  soul. 


STEPPING-STONES  253 

It  is   quiet  in  the   resting-place,  and  the 

leaves  of  the  white  birches  rustle  sadly. 
*  *  *  *  * 

But  let  the  dead  arise  !  Ye  grim  tombs 
ope  wide,  crumble  to  dust  ye  heavy  monu- 
ments, ye  iron  bars  give  place ! 

Be  it  but  for  one  day,  for  one  moment, 
give  freedom  to  those  whom  ye  are  smother- 
ing with  your  weight,  and  darkness  ! 

Ye  think  they  are  dead  !  Oh,  no  !  they 
live  !  They  are  silent,  but  they  live. 

They  live  ! 

Let  them  see  the  shining  of  the  blue,  cloud- 
less sky,  let  them  breathe  the  pure  air  of 
spring,  let  them  be  intoxicated  with  warmth 
and  love. 

Come  to  me  my  Talent  that  fell  asleep. 
Why  dost  so  drolly  rub  thine  eyes.  Does 
the  sun  blind  thee  ?  Does  it  not  shine  bright 
indeed  ?  Thou  laughest  ?  Oh  laugh,  laugh 
on — there  is  so  little  of  laughter  among  man- 
kind. I  too  will  laugh  with  thee.  Look  ! 
there  flies  a  swallow— let  us  fly  after  it ! 
Has  the  tomb  made  thee  too  heavy  ?  And 
what  is  that  strange  horror  I  see  in  thine 
eyes — like  a  reflection  of  the  darkness  of  the 
tomb  ?  No,  no,  don't !  Don't  cry.  Don't 
cry,  I  say  ! 

So  glorious,  indeed,  is  life  for  the  risen  ! 

And    ye    my    dear    little    Hopes !     What 


254  STEPPING-STONES 

charming  laughing  faces  are  yours  !  Who 
art  thou,  stout,  funny  little  cherub  ?  I  know 
thee  not.  And  wherefore  laughest  thou  ? 
Has  the  tomb  itself  been  unable  to  afright 
thee  ?  Gently,  my  children,  gently  !  Why 
dost  insult  it — see'st  not  how  little,  pale  and 
weak  it  is  become  ?  Live  ye  in  the  world — 
and  do  not  worry  me.  Do  ye  not  see  that  I, 
too,  have  been  in  the  tomb,  and  now  my 
head  is  giddy  with  the  sun,  and  the  air,  and 
gladness. 

Ah  !  how  glorious  is  life  for  the  risen ! 

Come  to  me,  ye  lovely,  majestic  Sisters. 
Let  me  kiss  your  gentle  white  hands.  What 
do  I  see  ?  Is  it  bread  ye  are  carrying  ?  Did 
not  the  darkness  of  the  tomb  terrify  you — 
so  tender,  womanly  and  weak ;  under  the 
whelming  mass  did  ye  still  think  of  bread 
for  the  hungry  ?  Let  me  kiss  your  feet.  I 
know  where  they  will  soon  be  going,  your 
light,  swift  little  feet.  And  I  know  that 
wherever  they  pass  by  flowers  will  spring  up 
—wondrous,  sweet-smelling  flowers.  Ye  call. 
We  will  come,  then. 

Hither  !  my  risen  Talent — why  stand  gaz- 
ing at  the  fleeting  clouds.  Hither  !  my  little 
sportive  Hopes. 

Stop! 

I  hear  music.  Don't  shout  so,  cherub. 
Whence  these  wondrous  sounds  ?  Gentle, 


STEPPING-STONES  255 

melodious,  madly  joyful,  and  sad,  they  speak 

of  life  eternal- 
Nay,  be  ye  not  afraid.     This  will  soon  pass 

away.     I  weep,  indeed,  for  joy  ! 
Ah  !  how  glorious  is  life  for  the  risen  ! 


THE   END. 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by  Butler  &  Tanner,  Frome  and  London 


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